


The Price of Interference

by keerawa



Series: The Dawson Chronicles [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bosnia, Chromatic Character, Diary/Journal, Gen, Guilt, Haiti, Immortals, Original Character(s), POV First Person, Trauma, Voudoun, War, Watchers, Watchers Diaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-18
Updated: 2006-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe Dawson - Watcher, Vietnam vet, bartender, bluesman ... assassin?<br/>Joe overhears a conversation never meant for his ears. The consequences will require him to reveal old secrets, face his personal demons, and take care of an unstable Immortal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistaken Identities

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://mackiedockie.livejournal.com/profile)[**mackiedockie**](http://mackiedockie.livejournal.com/) , the creative, enthusiastic, and patient alpha reader who midwifed this story into existence. My beta readers, Parda, Suzanne, and Steven, polished this story to help it shine. [](http://unovis-lj.livejournal.com/profile)[**unovis_lj**](http://unovis-lj.livejournal.com/) provided some sorely need technical assistance in getting a live journal up and running. Maria and Jean-Pierre are original characters. I am not Haitian or Bosnian, and know only as much about the culture and history of those nations as I was able to gain in two months of Internet and library research. My apologies for any errors - please feel free to point them out to me.

**Chapter 1**

Nina Simone croons a welcome home from the jukebox as I walk into the bar. I check my watch and relax into the darkness after the bright afternoon sun. Still a good hour before the evening rush, plenty of time to get a start on that paperwork. Mike is working on a busted tap down the far end of the counter. He greets me with his usual "How's it shakin', Joe?" The place seems deserted.

I grab the stack of papers from the drawer next to the register and limp towards the booths in the back. There's a man slumped in the nearest booth, facing the door. Café au lait complexion, short tight-curled black hair, army/navy surplus outfit, couldn't be more than 19 or 20 …

I stop and glare at Mike. What's he doing letting an under-age kid in the bar? Mike catches the glare, shrugs, and taps his wrist twice, right where the cuff of his sweatshirt covers a blue Watcher's tattoo.

Ah, a Watcher. The kid must be that new field intern Maria mentioned, straight out of the Academy. What's his name, Gerald, Jeremy? Something like that.

All the mobile field agents drop into the bar when they pass through. It's a professional courtesy to check-in with the Area Supervisor when your Immortal blows into town, but everyone's a hell of a lot more courteous, now that I'm running a bar instead of a bookstore.

It was a little hairy, back when MacLeod and Richie were hanging out in the bar and Watchers were dropping by all the time. That's not an issue anymore, not since Andrew Cord knifed Charlie out in the alley. Thanks to Amanda, at least MacLeod is speaking to me again. But he doesn't come by just to hang out anymore. Keep moving, Joseph, it's not a tragedy, just one of those things.

Anyway, Maria had called to say that her assignment, Grace Chandel, was flying into Seacouver. Maria said she would bring her intern by the bar, so she'll probably be in to join him any time now.

I take a closer look as I walk past the kid's booth. Should have been good-looking, but right now he looks more like a mile of bad road. Eyes tight closed, at least 20 pounds underweight, his cheeks hollow, with dark bruises under the eyes that tell me he hasn't slept much lately. The kid's face is blank, almost expressionless, but his body language gives him away. He is hunched over, clutching that mug of coffee like a drowning man, perfectly still except for his right index finger stroking the rim of the mug to the slow rhythm of the sobbing blues song.

Something about it reminds me of a few of the young soldiers in the rehab ward, after the war. They tried so hard to pretend everything was fine. Their faces showed nothing to the world, but their bodies would curl up around the pain they were feeling.

I'm starting to worry. I nearly stop to ask the kid what's wrong, but the last thing he needs is to be interrogated by a total stranger. Whatever the kid's problem is, Maria will help him deal with it. She's great with interns, kind of a cross between a grandma and a drill sergeant.

I walk down to last booth to give the kid some privacy, drop the stack of papers on the table, rest my cane against the edge, and settle myself on the seat. A few seconds of upper-body effort slide me all the way into the booth.

I get to work on the payroll deductions that new law requires. No one gets paid under the table at "Joe's." Watcher-owned businesses are always careful to follow the local laws and tax codes to the letter. Nina's voice is replaced by Etta James, then Cassandra Wilson.

I feel a cold breeze when the door opens, and glance up to see a woman silhouetted by the afternoon sunlight in the doorway. The build is right for Maria. I look back down at my paper work, determined to give Maria a chance to get her intern settled before I butt in. I feel the shifting of the attached booths as the kid rises and then sits back down with his guest, and hear the hushed tones of a quiet conversation.

The word, "Immortel" falls into a beat of silence in the music. Damn it, the two of them are holding a conversation about Immortals here when the bar is open! Still, they're speaking French, the music's covering them, and the place is almost empty. I bet they haven't noticed me sitting here. I settle back to practice a little professional eavesdropping, translating from French to English.

The young male subject is facing my direction now. I can catch occasional snatches of his voice, a light tenor with a bit of a accent, maybe a touch of Creole in there? The 2nd subject is a female soprano, voice muffled by her location. Probably Maria, but no visual or audio confirmation is possible at this time.

I write the report in my head. Delivering it to Maria word-for-word should make the point that the middle of my bar during business hours ain't the best place to discuss Watcher affairs.

The jukebox must have run out of quarters; the music stops. Now I can hear the male subject clearly, his tenor still quiet but choked up with anguish.

"I just don't know if I can do it anymore! I know, I know, Mortals and Immortals are different; we each have our own battles to fight. We're supposed to watch, learn from them, remember them when their gone, never interfere. I know what you taught me! But … how can you do it?"

Maria is murmuring some response.

"And some of them are murdering bastards! You don't know what I've seen, what they did." The young man's breath catches, close to a sob.

Jesus, what did the kid see? Grace Chandel is one of the gentlest Immortals I know of, a doctor. Maybe Maria ran across a loose Immortal, and had her intern Watching him while she reported in?

"Oh, the things they do to each other, I don't know if I can stand it anymore…"

To each other? Was it just a Challenge that had the kid spooked? Your first beheading can be a shock, but there has to be something more to this. Maybe another Immortal did something terrible to Grace? She might have run to McLeod for help, they are close enough for that.

"I know we're not supposed to take sides, but I just couldn't watch it happen again! I killed one of them. I killed him, and it didn't make any difference!"

Fuck. The kid killed an Immortal? What the hell is going on around here? Maria's intern is turning into a Hunter. I have to report this. The Watchers have some good counseling and psychiatric facilities, and plenty of experience with post-traumatic stress. They'll help him. Probably.

Then again, maybe they'll put him up against a wall and shoot him. No one will give me a straight answer on what happened to the men James recruited, or even to Rita. Ah hell, maybe the kid killed that Immortal in self-defense!

I close my eyes, focusing all of my talents as a musician and a Watcher on understanding this young man from nothing but the sound of his voice. I need to make a decision soon, and the kid's life and sanity might hang in the balance.

"Well that's why I'm here, isn't it, to talk to him!"

Bitterness in that voice. Did Maria bring him here to talk to me? He sounds … betrayed. Why would bringing the kid to me be a betrayal?

"Your friend, he does take sides, and he makes sure his side wins! A little information, a few casualties … I've heard stories!"

Whatever happens to this kid, I am a dead man. If an intern straight out of the Academy has heard stories that I'm interfering in the Game like that, there's no question what the Tribunal will do. I never went as far as this kid is implying, but the stories he's heard might be true.

MacLeod went after Durgan for Lauren's sake. He let Cord live because I asked him to, and now we've got Charlie DeSalvo's death on both our consciences.

Information … every time Mac's asked me for information on an enemy, I've given it to him. I bitch, I whine about my oath, and I give it to him.

Okay, Joseph, focus. You can't change the past or any rumors flying around in France, but maybe you can do something to help this kid.

"And when it comes down to one of us or one of them, then one of us is dead! Is that why you brought me here, so he could kill me?"

Memories: the recoil of a gun in my hand, James falling into the river. Sighting down the barrel of a gun at Christine Salzer's back. Ah. That would explain the betrayal. I'm not an executioner, kid. I just shot my own brother-in-law and tried to kill Don's wife. Yeah, I guess I see your point. Oh, James, I wish things hadn't gone down like that.

A gust of cold, damp air from the door interrupts my little trip into self-loathing. It's dark out now. Duncan MacLeod stands highlighted by the lights, scanning the bar. Count on him to make an entrance. My lips stretch to a welcoming smile before reality crashes in.

The last thing this kid needs right now is to see an Immortal. My hand fumbles for my cane while my mind fumbles for the right words, to get Mac out of here without stressing the fragile peace between us.

"Duncan!" The female subject emerges from the booth and runs towards MacLeod, embracing him in the doorway.

Not Maria's soprano, not Maria's profile, not Maria. It's Grace Chandel. And that means … thanks a lot, Mike.

This "kid" isn't a Watcher; he's an Immortal. Not Maria's intern; Grace's student. Could be my age, could be hundreds of years old. And this Immortal isn't thinking he's here to get shot by Joe Dawson, he's afraid of getting beheaded by Duncan MacLeod.

By now I'm standing next to the booth. The kid is staring at me curiously, dark eyes wet, tear tracks shining on his face. I smile blandly and walk past him, taking care to stay out of arm's reach. Didn't hear a thing, kid. I was asleep. I was drunk. I was wearing headphones. I don't speak French. Yeah, that one might work. But Mac knows better.

MacLeod is still in the doorway, embracing Grace, while she whispers to him. He has already noticed me, and the crease in his forehead speaks volumes to someone who's been observing him for 16 years. He ain't happy.

Even though spying on Immortals is a Watcher's job, I feel bad about this one. This Immortal is tearing himself apart over killing a Mortal, and his crisis of conscience is really none of my business. I've got enough problems of my own.

How can I make this right, with Mac, with Grace's student? When I thought he was a Watcher, I wanted to help. Can I still do that? Should I?

I flash back to my first sight of "the kid", a picture of misery, lost in the music. I've been there. Plenty of times the blues has got me through when nothing else could. Oh!

I change course, heading towards my office. Once inside, I tear through the desk, looking for a jewel case. Sometimes the groups playing the bar give me one of their CD's; I always keep some of my own on hand to exchange. There!

I hustle back into the bar, hoping I haven't missed them. No, MacLeod and Grace are sitting at a table near the entrance, speaking in low urgent tones. Several other customers are at the bar.

Grace's student is still sitting in the booth, staring into space, back to them. That just isn't normal behavior, not around an Immortal you don't know. Especially around one you think might be after your head. I walk over to greet MacLeod and Grace.

"Hey Mac."

"Joe." MacLeod nods to me, his voice and face neutral. Grace turns around with a smile. Always polite, even in a crisis, that's Grace.

"Joe Dawson, Isabelle Pontard." That hurts. McLeod has to know I recognize Grace. Is he telling me to back off, or is Grace the one person among all his Immortal friends that he hasn't told about the Watchers? Maybe Grace is just extra careful about her real name being used in public.

"Joe, it is a pleasure! Duncan has told me so much about you, and your wonderful blues bar. I thought Jean-Pierre would love it here." Guess he hasn't told you anything about me lately, lady.

"I overheard some of what your friend in the booth, Jean Pierre?" Grace nods. "I overheard some of what Jean-Pierre was saying, enough to know he's got a lot to work through." I lay my CD down on the table.

"Please give this to him, for me? It's one of my recordings. I saw him listening to some blues earlier, and it seemed to help him keep it together. And since I heard something of him, I thought … maybe he should hear something of me in return."

MacLeod turns the CD around so he can read the cover, glancing curiously up at me. Geez MacLeod, you assumed I just played in bars?

Grace's eyes flood suddenly with tears. She smiles wistfully. "Jean-Pierre has been a musician all of his life. This is a thoughtful gift, and it may help him tonight, very much. Last time I saw it, Duncan's music collection was all opera."

Good, Grace is okay with this. Now to see if Mac is gonna keep freezing me out.

"All right, well, I know you folks probably need to clear out of here. Mac, feel free to come back tomorrow night. Bring Jean-Pierre, if he's up to it. I'll buy you all a drink, if he has some ID showing he's 21."

MacLeod looks up from his close perusal of the CD. The crease was gone, replaced by a small smile. "I'd like that. Not sure if Jean-Pierre will be ready, but if he is, we'll bring him by."

"Great, see you then."

I turn around and walk to the bar to give Mike a hand with the customers who are steadily filling up the place. "Robbie Laws Hoodoo Nation" will be playing in another hour. Those boys always pull in a good crowd.

Hopefully Maria and her intern will come by tomorrow. I'll have him give Mike a refresher on field hand signals. Nothing like having a rookie show you up to make a lesson stick. And flashing a "Watcher" signal when you meant "Immortal" could get an agent killed in the wrong situation.

Mike's last supervisor let him get awful sloppy on some of the basics, but he picks up the slack when you call him on it. Richie is heading out of town tomorrow night, so I need to get this taken care of before Mike ships out to Watch him.

I notice MacLeod and Grace hustle Jean-Pierre out the door as I settle in behind the bar. Hope Jean-Pierre comes through this okay. Seems like a nice kid. But he's wrong. The problem isn't that Mortals and Immortals are different. The problem is we're very much the same.

Jean-Pierre's confession stirred up too many of my own sins. I'm looking forward to a night of hot blues and cold booze, without any Watcher or Immortal drama. The bar is a lot more work than running a bookstore, but it is worth it. The blues are better than prayer, for letting go of a heavy load.


	2. Sleepless Nights

**Chapter 2**

The next day I sit down at my computer to check out the new Immortal in town. Grace hasn’t taken many students, so he shouldn’t be too hard to pin down. There he is. Hey, original name “Jean-Pierre Bastien.” Is he another “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod”? No … I see a bunch of aliases here. Grace trusted me enough to give me the kid’s real name. As a supervisor, I can access the full file.

As it downloads, I wonder just how much Mac’s told Grace about me? And how many Immortals has she told? Do Immortals gossip? Let’s see what I can do to earn her trust. I’m not reporting I’ve found him, not until I’ve talked to MacLeod, that’s for sure.

 **Born: Haiti, 1820?** The “kid” is 175 years old.  
 **First Death: 1840? ; Circumstances unknown** Wonder if he’d tell me, if I asked him.

 **First Teacher: Grace Chandel and Carlo Sendaro.** That’s unusual.  
Immortals who are paired up don’t often take on students. Three’s a crowd. Then again, people in unhappy marriages sometimes have kids to try and hold the marriage together. Maybe this works the same way, for Immortals.

 **Original cultural affiliation: Haitian Creole, practitioner of voodoo** Interesting.

 **Occupation: Musician.** Yeah, I would have guessed that. What kind?  
Let’s see, New Orleans in the 50’s. I click on the link. Delta blues and R&B. Oh hey, I recognize that name. I’ve got his voice on an old record upstairs! That’s tempting.  
Focus, Joseph. Chronicle now, save the vinyl for later.

 **Recent base of operation: No fixed location**  
Lived on the plantation with Grace and Carlo for a few years, then moved to Paris. Spent some time with Darius. After that … a real wanderer, this one. Hardly ever stays in one place for more than a few months.

Only places he’s settled down in this century were Jamaica, New Orleans, and Ireland. Guess he likes places where the cupboards and the banks are empty, but the music and hearts are full.

This chronicle is pretty spotty. An Immortal has to be either paranoid or truly dangerous for us to not keep a steady Watcher on him. Why’ve we got such a hard time keeping track of him? Just how scary is Jean-Pierre?

I sort methodically through the files, looking for an answer. I spent 8 months stuck in Research before I convinced the Watchers I could handle a field posting. I resented it at the time, but some of the skills still come in handy.

The answer, when I find it, is so innocent that I feel like patting the kid on the head. Most Immortals live like an episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” They fly first class, live in beautiful homes, and only work when they feel like it.

Jean-Pierre, on the other hand, was always either flat broke or faked it well. In 1990 he’d been living in Ireland for 4 years. Was part of a pretty successful Celtic folk-rock band, looked like they might make it big. All of a sudden, he tells his friends he’s going on pilgrimage, gives away all of his worldly possessions, buys a pair of hiking boots and a backpack, and starts walking.

Two ferry rides and two weeks of boot leather later, his Watcher lost him on the outskirts of Paris, right after a visit to Darius. The agent’s report includes some truly bitter complaints about Scottish weather, the condition of toilets in youth hostels, and the three nights he’d spent sleeping under bridges.

Jean-Pierre was assigned a younger, fitter, and more mobile Watcher, who eventually found him in Rome, then lost him again when he walked across the border from Greece into Turkey.

How do you follow someone who is walking two and a half thousand miles without being noticed? At least a couple of centuries ago there would be other foot traffic on the roads. No wonder we keep losing this Immortal when he travels.

Jean-Pierre showed up in the Holy City some months later. He spent six months in Jerusalem, respectfully visiting the holy sites of all three major religions, sleeping in youth hostels, busking on the streets to make some money, and becoming a favorite customer in one of the local bars. Then he bought a second-hand bike and headed south.

When he was spotted next, Jean-Pierre was singing with a jazz quartet in Cairo nightclubs. In late ‘93 we finally got a Watcher on him when he spent a season working on a fishing trawler on Lake Victoria.

 **Roster Status: Missing, presumed dead; Rwanda 1994.**  
Oh, now this is starting to make sense. Poor kid. Some things I saw in ‘Nam back in 1968 still give me Technicolor nightmares. Small potatoes compared to Rwanda in ‘94. Massacres, rape camps, genocide of almost a million people before it was all over. No wonder he lost it.

* * *

  
Thoughts of Jean-Pierre’s Chronicle distract me during a long night of tending bar. But you gotta figure anybody who orders a drink called “Sex With an Okinawan Bartender” in a place called “Joe’s”, deserves whatever he gets.

MacLeod shows up just before closing. I’m down behind the bar, checking the stock on some of the micro-brews I keep in the fridge, when MacLeod walks in the door.

I stand up and wave MacLeod over. Tonight Mac seemed subdued, tired. The shadow on his chin shows he didn’t shave before going out, unusual for him. He slides into a stool right in front of me.

“Joe.” he rumbles. Guess that’s the closest to a ‘hello’ that I’ll be getting tonight.

I nod, and raise my voice to reach the cheap seats. “Closing time, folks! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Hey, Mac. Grace and Jean-Pierre gonna be coming by tonight?”

“No, not tonight. Jean-Pierre is … troubled.”

The die-hard customers shuffle out the door. I lock the door behind them, then start cleaning behind the counter and put the remaining glasses into the dishwasher. MacLeod moves around the room wiping off the tables and putting up the chairs, like he always does when we close the bar together. Amazing how the comfortable habits remain, even when the comfortable relationship that created them is shot to hell. We can talk while we work.

“Troubled? Well, I could see that yesterday. In what way?”

“He’s not carrying a sword, Joe. Says he’s afraid he’ll kill another Mortal, if he does. I don’t know; maybe he would. He told me he’s gotten in two fights with Mortals this year, and each time he put the man in the hospital with his bare hands.”

“He hasn’t carried a sword since he left Rwanda?”

“Yes, since Rwanda!” MacLeod snarls. “Why am I even bothering to tell you any of this? You Watchers probably know what color boxers he borrowed to sleep in last night!”

At least it’s out in the open. Still, Mac knows that I don’t run surveillance on the loft. I hate it when he pulls this crap. I snap back, “They lost him in Rwanda. They think he’s dead. And I haven’t reported seeing him yet.”

“Why not?” he asks, looking a little embarrassed.

Damn good question. Why do I break all the rules for a man who seems to think I care more about the color of his underwear than I do about him? Because he’s a friend, that’s why. Be nice, Joseph. At least Mac’s speaking to you enough to insult you. That’s an improvement.

“I wanted to give him, and you, a choice about how I pitch my report. But if you want that choice, we need to do it soon. If Grace’s Watcher hasn’t recognized Jean-Pierre yet, she will soon.”

MacLeod nods. “I’ll speak to him about it.”

I reach for a shot glass and the bottle of Glenmorangie, pouring Mac a liquid apology with the smooth ease of long practice. I walk to the fridge to grab myself a Sam Adams, and then around the bar to settle down on a stool next to MacLeod.

“So how did it go last night, after you got him out of here?”

MacLeod picks up the shot glass and sips the fine whisky. “Badly. Grace and I were trying to walk him home to the loft. But Jean-Pierre kept hesitating: in the alley outside, getting into the car, getting out of the car, inside the dojo. I was tired of pulling him along, so I stopped, stepped away from him, and asked what was wrong.”

MacLeod’s eyes glaze over, and his breathing slows down. I recognize the signs of an Immortal traveling down memory lane, and take a few swallows of my beer while waiting for MacLeod to return to the present. When he twitches, I’m ready to prompt him.

“And Jean-Pierre said?”

“He sank to his knees, Joe, and said he was waiting for me. He was resigned, ready for death. He honestly thought I would take his head, right there in my own dojo! No Challenge, just an execution.”

Maybe I should have warned you about that last night, Mac, but it’s not an easy thing to bring up. And I was a little too relieved that he didn’t think I was his executioner.

“Does Jean-Pierre want to die?”

“No! That’s the crazy thing about it! He wants to live. Jean-Pierre called Grace from Boston, and she told him she wanted him to meet the two of us here in Seacouver. He knew I’d killed Carlo Sendaro, to protect her, and he thought I was going to do the same thing to him. And then he hitchhiked cross-country to get to his own execution! I don’t understand it!”

MacLeod downs the rest of his whisky and places the shot glass back on the bar with an emphatic *tink*.

“Look, Mac, imagine that after Culloden, after all you’d done, you went to your teacher, Connor, for help. And Connor looked you in the eye, and said, with great love and sadness, that the only way to make amends was to give up your own life. What would you have done?”

Mac doesn’t seem to like the analogy. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me knowing that much about him, not right now. MacLeod picks up his shot glass and starts to walk around the bar, then pauses, glancing at me for permission.

“Go ahead, Mac. Pour me one too, while you’re at it?”

There was a time he wouldn’t have had to ask. That was then; this is now. MacLeod uses the excuse of pouring us both some whisky to get a little physical distance before coming back to the conversation.

“Joe, I see what you are trying to say, but this is nothing like Culloden! He killed one man, a man who was ordering the massacre of innocent women and children. I would be proud to kill such a man in battle!” MacLeod shakes his head.

“Mac, you were raised a warrior, and that’s how you live your life. I was a soldier, and I’ve learned to live with the lives I took during the war. But Jean-Pierre, he’s a student of Grace and Darius. It sounds like he hasn’t taken a single Mortal life in his entire 175 years. According to his own beliefs, what he did was murder. You telling him it was right isn’t going to make it so, not in his heart.”

We sit quietly for a time. I take a sip of my whisky, waiting for MacLeod to continue.

“Once we convinced Jean-Pierre that Grace didn’t want him dead, it almost seemed worse for him. That calm resignation that had brought him to the dojo was gone. He collapsed. I had to carry him upstairs.”

Mac’s voice resonates with a soft pity. Good to know. Doesn’t matter if I’m shit-faced, gut-shot, and my prosthetics were swallowed up by quicksand. I will drag myself across a field of broken glass before letting Duncan MacLeod carry me anywhere.

“He has nightmares, Joe. They sounded pretty bad. Grace finally played your CD on the stereo, and that seemed to help him sleep. At least, he didn’t wake me up again after that.”

And I don’t think I’ll be mentioning that I am a 25-year expert on nightmares anytime soon, either.

“When I got up this morning he was perched on the windowsill, looking out at the dawn. At that point we were able to talk to him, get some of his story out. I tried to give him a sword, but that didn’t go well.”

“So if Jean-Pierre’s not willing to carry a sword, are you going to get him to Holy Ground? The island, maybe?” An Immortal without a sword is easy pickings.

“That’s the other part of the problem, Joe. He won’t step foot on Holy Ground. It sounds like some of massacres he saw happened in churches. Then, when he finally got out, he headed to Paris to see Darius …”

“And Horton had killed him in his own church.” That part of it is the Watchers’ fault. We were never meant to interfere, but James did. He killed Darius, MacLeod found me, and like a line of dominoes, it leads to this conversation tonight. Not that I didn’t make my own choices. I’m glad to have had Mac as a friend. But it was Horton’s killing of Darius that first brought us together.

“He almost got hysterical, when I pushed him to stay on Holy Ground. Started insisting that it seemed safe, but it wasn’t safe, and something terrible would happen.” MacLeod sighed. “I think … I get the feeling he fears some kind of divine retribution.”

That’s a tough one. Spiritual leaders who also happen to be Immortals just aren’t real common. If Jean-Pierre can’t get spiritual guidance, maybe some psychiatric counseling would help?

“How about Sean Burns? Have you considered sending Jean-Pierre to speak to him?”

“I suggested that, Joe. But he doesn’t want to speak to Sean Burns. He wants to speak to you.”

Ugh. Inhaling while drinking whisky is not a good idea. It burns the sinuses. “Me?”

“You.”

“Why the hell would he want to speak to me?”

“It started with that CD. He listened to it over and over, said he could hear your heart in it. Jean-Pierre said he could hear that you were a good man, and he wanted to thank you in person. It was so frustrating! There I was, trying to give the man a sword so he can survive the Game, and he just wanted to talk about music! So I told him…”

“You told him I was a Watcher.”

“Yes, I told him you were a Watcher! Jean-Pierre seemed to think that having a secret society of Mortals spying on us and recording our every move is a great idea. He wanted to know if he had a Watcher, if he could meet him. It was the first spark of life I’d seen I him. I was trying to explain to him that it was not a good idea, for Watchers and Immortals to get too close. So I told him about some things that happened recently.”  
A pause. “About Charlie. And Cord.”

“Ah.”

“I didn’t even mean to, Joe, I’m sorry.”

My fingers drum on the head of my cane, once, and again. I look away from MacLeod, into the dim lit recesses of the bar. I don’t really want to cuss him out, but nothing else comes to mind. When I finally manage to speak, I’m surprised at how calm my voice sounds.

“You know, MacLeod, it never ceases to amaze me. For someone who lies about his personal history to every single person he meets, you can’t keep anyone else’s secrets worth a damn.”

“Joe…”

Suddenly, I can’t bear to hear another word. I stand up, abruptly, moving towards the door. MacLeod grabs my arm. With my high center of gravity, I start to topple over faster than a tipped cow.

Of course, Mac slides his feet like a cat and steadies me effortlessly until I get my balance back. It's just instinct, I tell myself. He can't help it. I manage to resist my own instinct to clock him one.

Well, there’s nothing like a little personal humiliation to knock some sense into you. What was I going to do, stomp out of my own place in the middle of the night?

“Joe …” MacLeod is still holding on, supporting me. He waits until I turn to look at him. Scottish guilt, yep, just as I expected. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” I take in a deep breath and let it out slow. He’s reaching out, and I am not going to bite his hand off for it.

“Let’s just try not to tell any more secrets to the strange Immortal we met yesterday, okay, Mac?”

He gently releases my arm. I march stiffly back to the stool and sit down.

“So, how did Jean-Pierre react to this little revelation?”

“He announced that he wanted to tell you his life’s story. Don’t even ask me why, Joe. I have no idea what is going on in his head.” MacLeod rests his elbows on the bar and rubs his eyes. He looks miserable, and exhausted.

“Oh, Mac,” I feel a totally inappropriate bubble of laughter, just from the tension relief. I manage to turn it into a cough. “This kid is really driving you up the wall, isn’t he.”

“Joe, he is Grace’s favorite student. I know he’s been through some rough times, and I’m happy to help. But I am really looking forward to getting my own home back. Will you please meet with him sometime soon?”

First priority: I need to get Mac a decent night’s sleep, before he takes the kid’s head just to get a little peace and quiet. I get up, make my way to the register, and start looking through the drawers behind the counter.

“You bet, Mac. Oh, here they are.”

I toss him a small plastic container. MacLeod catches and inspects it.

“Earplugs. I use them sometimes if a band goes a little over the top with the volume; got to save my hearing for the good stuff. Wear them tonight if Jean-Pierre decides to use my CD for a lullaby. Tomorrow you can buy him his very own CD player, with headphones. Bring Jean-Pierre by Monday night, for the Jam Session.”

“I will. Thank you Joe, for everything.” MacLeod smiles with more warmth than a loan of some earplugs would seem to merit and heads out the door.

I make my way up the stairs to my apartment, sit down on the bed, and pick up my acoustic guitar. I wasn’t sure before, Mac, but we’re going to get through this. I pluck a high note, then a low. Mortal, Immortal, Watcher, Watched.

I strum a chord, blending the notes together. We’re still friends. I slide the chord into a Chicago blues shuffle rhythm and croon a little celebration over the top. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Oh yeah.” A grin on my face, I place the guitar back in its stand and get ready for bed.  



	3. Open Jam Session Night

**Chapter 3**

Monday nights are Open Jam Session Night at “Joe’s”. It’s my favorite night of the week. You never know who might show up to join in. It might be a local girl trying out some blues riffs for her garage band, or a headliner from Vegas returning to his roots. That’s the beauty of standards – they let you make music with perfect strangers.

The audience was small, but friendly, forgiving, open-minded, and fanatically loyal. They were up for anything, from swing to aharmonic free form jazz solos. There were regulars that had never missed a Monday Jam Session since “Joe’s” opened. One woman had flown back halfway through her honeymoon in Hawaii, new husband in tow, so as not to miss it. Never heard so many love songs as got played that night. Tonight we’ve got the house band plus “Walrus” Santiago on trumpet. Walrus was driving from San Diego up to a gig in Victoria, but had planned his trip so he could be in Seacouver for the Jam Session.

I can’t help but glance over at MacLeod’s table. It’s empty again. It used to be, whenever the two of us were in town, Mac would sit at that table. Of course, whenever he wasn’t in town, I’d be out of town Watching him, whether it was Paris or that trip to Scotland. The regulars made a few jokes about it, but they always left that table open. They knew if I was playing, Mac would be in at some point to listen.

Until six weeks ago, when my friend Cord killed our friend Charlie, and Mac stopped coming in on Monday nights. The regulars asked after him. The band asked after him. I can’t even remember what I told them, but no one asked after that night. Six weeks, and all the regulars still leave that table open for him, just in case. It’s starting to get a little morbid. But tonight, MacLeod is gonna be here with Jean-Pierre. It’s okay if it takes a crisis to get him here; that’s what his life is like. I just want to see my friend sitting at that table again.

MacLeod arrives during one of Walrus’s solos. I keep a steady rhythm going and watch the reactions as Mac strides in with Grace on his arm, Jean-Pierre trailing after them. I’m still not sure if MacLeod is just modest, or if he really is oblivious to the effect he has on people. My regulars murmur greetings as he passed. A few of the single women who had been maneuvering around him inspect Grace. Mac is more his usual dapper self, pulling out the chair for her while watching Walrus do his thing.

Jean-Pierre looks … better. Still under-fed, but he doesn’t have that “deer in the headlights” look from a few days ago. He’s wearing some of Richie’s clothes; the dressy slacks and cobalt blue shirt that Richie only wears when Mac drags him somewhere fancy. Jean-Pierre sits at the table folding in on himself. I’ve been reading Jean-Pierre’s Chronicles, trying to figure out how I can help. Getting him up on stage in front of an audience is the best thing I can do for the kid. That’s real life for him, before all this craziness started. And no real bluesman can resist a jam.

Walrus is winding up his solo, and I snap my attention back to the stage. A jam isn’t planned out in advance, so you have to keep your eyes open for band members signaling chord changes, solos, and stops. I throw myself into the next few verses. As the last chords of “Playin’ with my Friends” fade out, I decide it’s time to test out my theory.

“We’re gonna take a 15 minute breather, be back soon for the last half of the jam.”

I check in with the rest of the band. My guys are fine with anybody hopping on stage, but out-of-town pro’s sometimes get cranky about letting amateurs play with them.  
“Walrus, the kid over there’s got a great set of pipes, mind if I invite him up?”

Walrus shrugs. “Fine with me, it’s an open jam, right? Just so long as I’ve got time for a smoke.” He bolts for the door. “Joe’s” is smoke-free, and it’s tough on some of the nicotine addicts.

I lay my Gibson down gently in its stand, pick up my cane and head for MacLeod’s table, greeting my regulars on the way. Mac gestures me to the open seat.

“MacLeod, Isabelle, glad you could make it!”

Grace glances side-ways at MacLeod, and then extends her hand. “My friends call me Grace, Joe.”

“Grace, then, it’s a pleasure to see you in here again. A beautiful woman always adds a touch of class to the place.”

I resist a sudden, bizarre urge to kiss her hand, shaking it firmly instead. Must be those drawings of her wearing bonnets in Mac’s chronicles. I settle into the remaining chair with a sigh and wait for MacLeod to formally introduce me to the kid.

“Jean-Pierre, this is Joe Dawson. You’ve been listening to his CD all weekend.”

Jean-Pierre is staring at me without saying a word. Anybody in there?

“Welcome to “Joe’s”, Jean-Pierre, good to meet you. Been enjoying the music?”

Jean-Pierre nods. “Yes. Yes, it brings back some good memories.” The faint Creole accent I noticed the other day is gone. I wonder if he only has it in French, or maybe it only comes out when he’s emotional, like MacLeod’s brogue.

“I hear you’re pretty good blues singer yourself. Want to sit in with us after the break? It’s an open jam session, everyone’s welcome.” Jean-Pierre looks around at the audience, clearly uncertain, hugging himself as if he’s cold.

“Hey, don’t worry. You will never find a friendlier audience than this. You could go up there and sing, “Happy Birthday.” If it had a decent bass line, these folks would try dancing to it.”

Mac looked ready to protest, but sits back in his chair at a pointed glance from Grace.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I urge, reminded of my childhood in Chicago, coaxing a friend out to play in the snow.

Jean-Pierre takes a deep breath and lets it out, relaxing his shoulders. “I would like that,” he replies.

“Terrific! How do you want me to introduce you?” No knowing what alias the kid was using. And stop thinking of him as a kid, Joseph. He’s 175 years old, for Pete’s sake.

“Jean-Pierre is fine, thank you for asking, Joe.”

“Right, I’m gonna head to the john. Meet you on stage in 5. I already told the rest of the band you might be joining us.” Come on, Jean-Pierre, you’ve done this plenty of times before, just fall into that old groove.

By the time I get back on stage, Jean-Pierre has set-up his mike and is chatting with the band. “… in church of course, a few parties, but mostly just playing around with friends and some jamming. We moved around a lot, so I never really had a chance to get in a steady group.”

I settle down into my chair and pick up the Gibson. “Picked out a first song?”

Jean-Pierre nods. “I’d like to try ‘A Better World Out There Somewhere’. Everybody know that one? Joe, you start us off. Be ready to push the tempo.”

“Sounds good,” I confirm. “Everybody ready?” Hearing no protests from my boys or Walrus, I turn on my mike. “We’ve got something new for you folks. He’s a fresh young face with some old-school blues in his soul. Please welcome Jean-Pierre!”

The audience breaks out in good-natured cheers and whistles. I dive in, electric guitar carrying the melancholy melody. Jean-Pierre is swaying to it, eyes closed. When he picks up the vocals, it’s almost too quiet to hear.

“Sometimes I wonder, just what I’m fighting for,”  
His tear-filled eyes snap open. Jean-Pierre leans towards the audience and wails:  
“I win some battles, but I always lose the war,”

Damn, so that’s what it sounds like when you’ve been singing the blues for a century. Jean-Pierre just bundled up all of the pain he was feeling, pushed it into his voice, and anointed the audience with it.

Jean-Pierre’s vocals pull us faster and faster. The song isn’t melancholy anymore; it is a desperate, pleading prayer. Jean-Pierre rails against our world’s cruelty and hopes for better in the hereafter, all the way to the end. There is a respectful silence, followed by some raucous cheering and applause from the audience. I wonder, not for the first time, if anything is left of an Immortal after their Quickening is taken. Most of them don’t seem to think so, but Jean-Pierre might be an exception.

Jean-Pierre leads us through “Sinner’s Prayer” and “Wander this World”. Each song of loneliness and woe seems to bleed off some of his tension. His body loosens up as the sweat stain creeps down the back of his shirt. Jean-Pierre starts to move around the stage, working the crowd. By “I Pity the Fool” he has the audience singing along with the chorus, everyone in the band getting a solo. Walrus calls for “Born Under a Bad Sign”, and then I take lead vocals with Jean-Pierre backing me in “Mustang Sally.” That really gets the room hopping. It’s late, but the audience wants an encore. They aren’t ready to go home quite yet.

“All right guys, what do you think? We need something special here for a finale.”

Six panting, beaming musicians stare back at me. Jean-Pierre grins mischievously.  
“Fever. Just like Peggy Lee. Joe, can you sing Romeo?”

“Never tried it, but I think I remember that part of the lyrics.”

“Great. I’ll start. Bass and percussion join me on the 4th beat. The rest of you jump in at the 2nd verse.” Everybody’s willing.

Jean-Pierre moves to the center of the stage and faces away from the audience, posing like a gypsy dancer with arms arced gracefully above his head. The crowd takes notice and quiets. Jean-Pierre snaps his fingers to set the beat. 1,2,3,4. When the bass starts he spins around and slinks sensuously to the mike. When he opens his mouth, a breathy torch song emerges.

When it’s my turn to break in as Romeo to his Juliet, Jean-Pierre pulls out all the stops. He shimmies, poses, flutters his lashes, and gyrates his way around me like some kind of harem girl. I sneak a look at the Immortals in the room. Grace is giggling; peeking out from between the hands she’s holding over her own eyes. MacLeod’s mouth is open, and he seems to have forgotten how to breathe. When my verse is done, Jean-Pierre has to sing the last part a capella. The whole band is laughing too hard to play their instruments. The applause is like a tidal wave.

Jean-Pierre bows extravagantly to the audience, and then leans on my shoulders from behind, yelling next to my ear to be heard. “Thanks Joe, that was fun.”

I turn my head and yell back. “I’ll say. Where the hell did you learn that?”

Jean-Pierre winks, grins, and replies, “Paris drag club.” He coyly lays his head down on his arms, mouth right next to my ear, and adds; “You should see it with me in an evening gown and wig.” He pauses there for a moment until a drop of sweat drips off his nose onto my ear, and then springs away.

I have to blink to clear the image out of my head. Was Jean-Pierre flirting with me? Probably just fooling around. I stand up in time to catch a glimpse of Maria, Grace’s Watcher, heading out the door. That should make tomorrow’s meeting with her interesting.

Every member of the audience seems determined to congratulate me, and talk about Jean-Pierre. “Thank you.” “Thanks.” “Yeah, I’ll be sure to ask him back.” “No, I don’t think Jean-Pierre sings with any local bands.” “Yes, he does seem to have an old soul.” “No, I’m not his agent.” “Thanks Josie, that means a lot, coming from you.”

“Mac, you and Grace can take off. Jean-Pierre can crash at my place after we’ve had some time to talk. Pick him up tomorrow morning around 11?”

I wonder if the two of them will take advantage of having the loft to themselves tonight. There’s some history between them, but Grace doesn’t seem to take things casually, and I’m not sure Mac’s looking for a commitment with another Immortal. Well, Mac can take care of his own love life. Tonight I’m going to have my hands full looking after Jean-Pierre.


	4. Mistaken Identities

**Chapter 4**

It takes 45 minutes to clear everyone out of the bar and lock up. I shut off the main lights, leaving just the stage spot and the bar lamp on. That should set the mood for a private conversation. 

I let Joni Mitchell finish up "Strange Boy" on the jukebox, and then pull the plug. Jean-Pierre is still buzzing around with that special high you get from a really hot live performance.

My hands are a little sore from the long set, but I'm feeling pretty good myself. I figure that's as good a way to start as any. I get him settled at one of the tables near the stage, then walk behind the bar to pull a Newcastle Ale out of the fridge.

"Can I get you something, Jean-Pierre?"

"Please!"

"What would you like? It's a bar, we've got most anything." He seems to be putting some serious thought into it. I wonder what kind of drink a 175-year-old Haitian Immortal will order.

"Beer. In a green bottle." Nobody over the age of 5 picks food or drink by color.

"You looking for a particular brand that comes in a green bottle?"

"No, I just like the color."

Okay. 175 going on 5. I grab him a Heineken and head back to the table, careful not to swing the bottles too much. I place them on the table and settle into a chair with a deep sigh.

"So … are you all right, Jean-Pierre?"

"No, Joe, I'm not all right. But I felt all right for a few hours. Thank you for that gift."

I nod.

"Duncan had some interesting things to say about you. Not just that you are a talented musician. You are also a historian, a storyteller, a soldier, and a cunning spy."

Thanks a lot, Mac. I should have you do my intro on stage. I down half of my beer in one long gulp. Should have brought a six-pack. I get the feeling this is going to be a long night.

"That would make you a bard, in fine Irish tradition. Can I see the tattoo?"

That's quite the compliment. It's also a damn odd reaction for an Immortal to have when they find out they're being spied on. Then again, Mac was annoyed that Jean-Pierre seemed so cheerful about it.

I can't say I'm thrilled about Jean-Pierre being able to recognize a Watcher tattoo on sight. Maria will be pissed if she or her intern gets made because of this. Then again, I'm sure MacLeod has already described it. Showing Jean-Pierre my tattoo won't make it any worse. If I play nice, it might make it easier to convince him not to spread the word about us.

I unbutton my left cuff and roll up the sleeve for him. Jean-Pierre takes my hand as if he were about to read my fortune and strokes his thumb over my palm while inspecting the Watcher tattoo. I know Haitians are touchy people, but this is ridiculous. I'm glad to get my hand back when he's through.

"Watchers swear an oath not to interfere in the Game, is that right?"

"Yes. We observe and record, but we don't interfere."

"How well do you uphold the terms of your oath?"

I know MacLeod already told him about the screw-up with Cord. He's watching me pretty closely, probably wants to see if I'll be honest about it. "As well as I can. Probably not as well as I should."

"And other Watchers do not interact with the Immortals they observe?"

"They might interact, but not in a way that allows the Immortal to know who they are."

"I see." Jean-Pierre nods, as if making a decision. "I want to tell you a story, Joseph Dawson – my story. I give you my permission to record it, and I ask that you tell it to others. Will that be possible?"

I consider all the gaps in Jean-Pierre's Chronicle that I could fill in tonight. I'm sure I can find some way to explain it. I could have overheard him talking to MacLeod. I could have bugged the loft. I wouldn't invade Mac's privacy that way, but plenty of other Watchers use surveillance equipment.

"Yeah, I can find a way to get any information you give me into your Chronicle."

"Good. Then we can begin." Jean-Pierre sits in silence for a minute, tilting his beer bottle from side to side, watching it catch the light.

"I remember my childhood," he says quietly, the sing-song of Creole in his cadence, "but the memories are distant, faded, like an old photograph. The names and events are there, but I don't feel them."

From what Mac's told me, his memories from before his first death are very clear. I wonder which is more typical of Immortals?

"My family was large, four generations of Bastien's under one roof; twenty-three of us, from my eldest grandmother to my newborn niece. My grandmother was noir, black. She had been a slave, before the revolution. The rest of my family were free mulattos."

Must be quite a story behind that woman.

"We spoke French for business, and Creole at home. We lived on the outskirts of Grande Goave, far enough to avoid the riots but close enough that mules could carry our goods into town, no matter how bad the roads got. We had some wealth, and much respect, for our skill as weavers."

"I remember my final days as a Mortal man. I was flirting with a girl in the market plaza. I just managed to push her out of the way before the runaway carriage slammed into me. I lasted 3 days; broken ribs, every breath a stabbing pain, drowning on dry land. I think I remember dying. But the memory of that is still distant."

He looks up at me.

"I'm glad I saved the girl. It was the last choice I made as a Mortal. Sometimes I wonder. Did she have a long and loving life, with many children? I never found out. I never even knew her name." Jean-Pierre pauses and slowly sips his beer.

"Jean-Pierre – when did this happen?"

"My death?" I nod. "1839, a week after All Soul's Day."

I make a note of that. It's possible the Watcher network might have some information on the girl Jean-Pierre saved.

He sits up and begins to speak more forcefully. "I remember waking from that death, vividly. The first thing was sound. I heard singing, and crying. I took a shockingly deep breath. My heart pounded in my chest. Next was the smell of sacred herbs burning. Under my hands, I felt the roughness of wool. I opened my eyes and saw the half-moon hanging above me in the sky. Then my sister screamed."

I murmur in wordless sympathy. Immortals who are caught reviving from their First Death by their loved ones have a rough time of it.

"No, it was not what you think. To my people, the spirit world was just as real as the physical. We put out a plate for our ancestors at every meal. Our loa mounted their favorites like horses, and spoke to us through their mouths at ceremonies. The night was full of spirits made of fire and darkness. So my sister was surprised to see me wake, but it was not … unprecedented."

I'm hooked. Has any Watcher ever heard a first-person account of an Immortal's First Death and Revival? And this one is unusual, but it makes sense. There must have been cultures in the past where having someone rise from the dead was a clear sign of the favor of the Gods. Hell, there were probably times and places where Immortals were viewed as Gods.

"I sat up. They had placed me out under the stars, lying on a funeral blanket. My family gathered around me. I asked the only question that really mattered. `Am I dead?' In Vodou, between life and death is not a hard line, but an ocean of possibilities. So it was not an easy question to answer."

"My grandmother was a very wise woman. She could tell if illnesses were natural or supernatural, knew when a woman was pregnant, and could chase nightmares away from a child or adult. Grann demanded a bright torch. She looked in my eyes, examined my chest, and smelled my breath. And then she squatted down next to me, and told me her answer."

"`You are healed from your wounds,' she said, `but I cannot say if it is because you are healthy, or because you are dead. The family must meet, to decide what is to be done.' My family went inside our home, away from the night, away from me." Jean-Pierre leans back and takes a few swallows of his beer.

I suppose that's better than being attacked or exiled, but not by much. "How did you feel?"

"I was ... peaceful. I didn't know if I was alive or dead, but I existed, and I was glad. The last few days had hurt so much. It was a pleasure to be able to breath freely again. There was no pain. I could sing without gasping for air. I spent the night sitting on my funeral blanket, singing to the spirits."

No pain. That's a celebration I can understand a little too well. Sometimes, after a long day, it hurts to stand. It hurts to walk. The prosthetics rub until everything hurts. I can see how feeling no pain would be worth celebrating. And music helps with all kinds of pain. "And in the morning?"

"Dawn came, and I didn't shrivel up or burst into flame. My nephew brought me some rice, fried plantains, and water. It felt good, to eat and drink, as if it made me more real. My family came out to greet me, and let me know of their decision."

"In the hills there was a powerful priestess favored by Baron Samedi, the loa that guards the dead. My older brother Andre had been a soldier. He would protect me and guide me to the priestess. Then I could ask the Baron if I was dead, and what the family should do. Andre had collected the supplies we would need for the trip, and offerings for the priestess."

"Grann asked if I agreed to this journey, of my own free will. I did – it was a good plan. I stood up and stepped off my funeral blanket. But I couldn't bear to leave it behind, so I folded it and put in the bag with the offerings."

"The entire family said goodbye, just as they would if I were lying cold and still on my funeral blanket. Then Andre and I left for the hills."

What a bizarre situation. Going on a trip, to find out if you are dead.

"What happened when you found the priestess?"

"The mambo was sitting outside of her hut, basking in the sun like a wrinkled tortoise. She peered up at us with half-blind eyes, then asked what offerings we had brought. We laid them out on the grass: food and cloth for her, rum and tobacco for the Baron."

"I pulled out my funeral blanket and sat down on it. It was comforting somehow. I needed the comfort, because I was afraid of the answer I had come to hear. Andre walked to the edge of the clearing. The mambo began to hum, to mutter a call to the Baron, to rock. If she were younger, there would have been a song and dancing. But the Baron knew his own. It was enough."

"The change came over her. Her old spine lengthened, her legs crossed right over left. Her eyes opened, with an inhuman light in them. Baron Samedi inspected me. I asked the question that had been on my lips for 2 days and 2 nights. `Am I dead?' The Baron boomed, `Dead! You?' And He laughed."

Jean-Pierre stops, shifts, and drinks some more beer. "Have you ever been laughed at by a god, Joe Dawson?"

I think about it. I don't believe in spiritual possession, and God hasn't ever appeared in a blaze of glory to laugh at me, but there have been times when I wondered. Times when I did everything I could, to make things come out right, and for no reason at all the universe seemed determined to make everything go wrong. Like setting up a meeting between MacLeod and Cord, and having Charlie DeSalvo walk in at just exactly the wrong moment.

"I don't know. Sometimes things happen that seem too cruel to be just coincidence."

Jean-Pierre salutes me with his green beer bottle. "Exactly. There are no coincidences, Joe. Just patterns that we understand, and patterns that we do not."

"So the Baron laughed. He told me, `The man you were is dead. He is with me now. But you, you are a creature newborn of flesh, spirit, and lightning.'"

That's poetic. I've never heard an Immortal described that way before. We really need to get more Watchers out recording the legends of different cultures that might relate to Immortals.

"I asked Him what I should do. The Baron said that I needed to shed my skin, leave my human ways behind. I must travel to find others like myself, who would teach me to become what I was."

I wonder how much of that Jean-Pierre believed at the time, and how long it took him to find out the truth.

"So the priestess tried to convince you that you weren't human?"

Jean-Pierre looks up at me, eyes bright with some emotion. "I'm not human, Joe. No Immortal is human."

I have to laugh, thinking of the kid who was vamping up a torch song an hour ago. "Trust me, Jean-Pierre, you're human."

"Really?" Jean-Pierre raises the bottle to his lips, throws his head back, and swallows the last of his beer. He leans deep into my personal space, looks me in the eye, and asks silkily, "Do you think the man who killed Darius would agree?"

Jean-Pierre trades the empty bottle from his right hand to his left and smashes it against the side of the table. The neck shatters, sending fragments of glass skittering across the table and onto the floor. Jean-Pierre is now holding a jagged weapon in his hand.

He's going to kill me. What did MacLeod tell him about Darius? Why didn't Mac warn me? I'm going to be murdered in my own bar, by a pacifist student of Darius. James, wherever you are, you must be laughing right now.

No point in trying to run. I hold very still, trying to look harmless, hands down on the table. When he attacks, maybe I can surprise him. The corners of Jean-Pierre's lips curve into something that might be a smile.

Jean-Pierre slashes open his right palm with the broken bottle and lays it over the top of my left hand. He pushes down with more strength than I expected from his frame, pinning my hand to the table.

Jean-Pierre's blood, warm and wet, trickles down over my knuckles, between my fingers. What the hell? With a tingle, then a sizzle across my nerves, Jean-Pierre's Quickening cascades over my skin, healing his wound. The tiny hairs all over my body stand up at the alien sensation.

He, it, has me trapped. I push away from the table with all my strength. The metal chair legs gouge the wooden floor.

I sit in the chair panting for breath. My throat's sore. Did I yell? Scream? Jean-Pierre slouches back in his chair and watches me with the coolly implacable curiosity of a cat, long tongue flickering as he licks the blood off his own palm. The sight curdles in my gut with the tang of blood and ozone in the air. No one moves.

I close my eyes, shaken by the conviction that the thing sitting across from me is not a man. I know it's not right. I don't feel that way about Immortals. Is this what James felt?

I conjure up memories of Duncan MacLeod to clean out the dark corners of my soul, like a breath of fresh air in a sick room. Mac drinking at the bar, introducing me to Amanda, fighting for his life, mourning at Tessa's grave, showing up in a Cubs cap to watch the game with me on TV, laughing at Richie's attempts to tell dirty jokes in French, being there for me after Lauren died. That's a man, a good man.

I open my eyes and see Jean-Pierre staring at me intently. The sonofabitch was trying to freak me out! I try to speak. Nothing comes out. I cough, lick my lips, and try again. "Immortals are human," I manage to rasp.

Jean-Pierre looks down, says casually, "Well, we can agree to disagree about that, Joe. Just so long as you understand that I believe we are not." Jean-Pierre starts scooping the sharp fragments of glass on the table into a pile in front of him. He seems willing to pretend that nothing had happened.

No way in hell am I letting him get away with it. "Why did you do that?" It comes out in a growl. My throat still hurts, and I really don't like being played with.

Jean-Pierre stops toying with the glass and looks up. "I wanted to see your reaction. I needed to know the truth, so I pushed hard. Darius had not done anything to earn a death sentence in a millennium, so he was killed just for being an Immortal. If it were in you to kill an Immortal for being other, I would have seen it in you just now. You would have tried to kill me."

Jean-Pierre thought he was the one in danger tonight. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry. One thing's for sure. I will never think of Jean-Pierre as a kid again. He's old, insightful, graceful,damaged, and dangerous.

"What did MacLeod tell you about how Darius died?"

"He said nothing to me of Darius's death. I know that no Immortal would take his head on Holy Ground. When Duncan told me about the Watchers, I realized that a secret group of Mortals who know how to kill us must be the ones who did it."

That was his first thought when he heard about the Watchers? Of course it was. James killed Darius in the one place guaranteed to throw suspicion onto the Watchers. And MacLeod is handing out information about the Watchers and me like party favors to all of his Immortal friends. He doesn't realize how dangerous it is. Maybe Mac's friends wouldn't hunt us down, but what about their friends? Who has Amanda told? What about Carl Robinson, Grace and  
Richie? How far has it spread?

I look down at my lap. My left hand is still streaked with Jean-Pierre's blood. I wonder who else's blood will be on my hands before this is over.

"As for you being personally involved somehow … I had no proof, just an intuition. Life flows in patterns. Events and people are connected in strange ways. Joseph Dawson, you didn't kill Darius, but you know the one who did."

I nod. Jean-Pierre deserves to know, at least the basic facts. I recite, "His name was James Horton. He was a renegade Watcher. He's dead now. MacLeod killed him."

"No!" I flinch at his near yell. My nerves are a little shot right now. Did Jean-Pierre want to kill James himself? That doesn't fit with what I know of him from his Chronicles. On the other hand, it fits just fine with the crazy man who threatened me with a broken bottle a few minutes ago.

Jean-Pierre continues more quietly, while leaning forward and staring into my eyes. "That's not what I need from you. You know him. You are connected to him. You are a bard. Tell me his story."

Well, it's not as if Jean-Pierre doesn't know about the Watchers, or that renegade Watchers killed Darius. Between Mac and me the cat isn't just out of the bag; it's had a litter of kittens and they're eating the old lady. The rest isn't really secret, just … private. I'm not big on sharing my personal life with strangers. I rub my face. It feels sticky.

"Why do you need to know?"

Jean-Pierre bites his lip and sighs. His face is so close to mine that I can smell the hops on his breath. "How to explain … the thread of my life has become tangled, Joe. In order to untangle it I need to find the source of the other threads it has snarled on, and tease them apart. The man who killed Darius is one of those threads."

"I thought I was coming to Seacouver to die, Joe. But I wasn't. I came to Seacouver to hear this story from you, so that I can heal."

Absolute sincerity shines in his eyes. I'm a sucker for absolute sincerity. That's what gets me in such trouble when I'm around MacLeod. But I trust MacLeod. I don't even know Jean-Pierre.

"Jean-Pierre, I need a few minutes to think this over." See, I'm building up a resistance.

He sits back in his chair and blinks. "Of course, Joe. You might want to wash up. You're getting blood in your beard."

Oh. That's why it felt sticky. Ugh. "Yeah, I'll do that."

"Where is your broom?" Jean-Pierre inquires politely. "I should sweep up that glass."  
I point him towards the storeroom in the back.

I manage to make it into the bathroom and lower myself onto the toilet seat before the shakes start. Anger, fear, and pure adrenaline. I never expected to get a post-combat reaction from a chat with a blues singer, but there it is. The smell of blood might have something to do with it, too. Another minute to get my breathing back to normal, and I haul myself out of the stall to wash up.

I never lose it during an emergency. I suppose I should be glad that my body waits until a convenient time afterwards before doing this to me. And I don't puke anymore. When I first saw combat in `Nam, I would hurl about a half-hour after every firefight. I was glad when `Boy Scout' caught on as my nickname. The alternative was a lot less polite.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror, and wish I hadn't. The left side of my face is streaked with blood. My skin is a pasty white and I seem to have a few wrinkles that weren't there an hour ago. I lean against the sink and turn on the hot water to wash the blood off my skin and out of my hair.

So, Jean-Pierre wants me to tell him about James Horton. The funny thing is, I haven't really told anyone about James. Who would I tell? The Watchers? They decided I wasn't fit to keep the job of Northwest Coordinator just because James was my brother-in-law.

I tried to speak to Ian about it, that last time he came to Seacouver. He had mentored us at the Academy together. But Ian had also been Darius's Watcher for 30 years. He just insisted, `James Horton was the greatest error of my career,' and said the conversation was over. A few days later Ian was dead.

My sister Catherine? She doesn't know about the Watchers. Their daughter Lynn? After seeing her father shoot MacLeod, she decided we must both be in the CIA. I couldn't tell her the truth, and didn't have the energy to convince her of a lie. James abandoned both of them, anyway.

MacLeod? I would have told Mac, if he asked. But he never did, and he never will. MacLeod doesn't ask me any personal questions at all. It's not that he doesn't care. Maybe after 400 years of not being able to tell people the truth about yourself, you stop asking the kind of questions you could only answer with a lie.

In any case, I wouldn't really want MacLeod to hear that the man who murdered his friends, betrayed the memory of his love, and tried to kill Mac several times, was once my closest friend. We've got enough problems as it is.

I turn the handle in the sink all the way to cold and start scrubbing at my upper thigh. I don't want the blood to stain my pants.

So, where does that leave me? People go to psychologists because they say it's easier to talk to a stranger about some things. Maybe a crazy stranger is the easiest of all. Because at this point I honestly don't care what Jean-Pierre thinks of me. I don't care if he respects me. I don't care if he likes me, or thinks I'm a good person. He says he needs to hear about James. I need to tell someone. And if he doesn't like what he hears – screw him.


	5. The Story of James Horton

**Chapter 5**

As I walk back into the bar I hear an odd rhythmic sound.  
*swish, swish, thump thump thump* *thump, thump, swish*

I peer into the far dark corner. It's Jean-Pierre. Apparently incapable of sweeping in the boring everyday way, he's dancing with his broom to some music only he can hear. Heh. I get the feeling he might be a very likable man, when he's not on his crazy train.

I'd like a drink, but it'd be rude to not offer Jean-Pierre one. I'd rather not put any more glassware in his hands tonight. If he's sticking around maybe I'll place an order for some plastic cups. I head to the kitchen. There is some bottled water back there for musicians on the wagon. I grab two nice safe plastic bottles and return to the bar.

Jean-Pierre has swept and danced his way around to the opposite corner. I settle down at our table. Looks like he also took the time to clean off the blood.

A few minutes ago I had called up memories of my friend Duncan MacLeod. Now I invoke memories of my friend James Horton. For two years I've tried to keep these memories out. Inviting them back … it feels odd, like the way your arm prickles when the circulation's restored after it's fallen asleep on you.

James: lying on his bed listening to me play, arguing in a late night bull session, falling down laughing in an alley, kissing Catherine's hand, crying on my couch when he got back from Cambodia, reading a bedtime story to Lynn, toasting Connor MacLeod for taking out the Kurgan. James was a good man, once. That's where the story has to start. It'll take us into the dark soon enough.

I call Jean-Pierre back to the table. He pulls up a chair and sits perched on the edge. I read the quivering tension he was trying to lose in that dance. This is important to him. And that puts me in a position to negotiate. My heart races a little at the thought, but I can do this.

"Jean-Pierre, I'm willing to tell you about James Horton. But there are two conditions. First, I want your word that you won't tell anyone, Mortal or Immortal, about the Watchers or what I'm about to tell you, without my permission."

He nods, and then hesitates. "What about after you are dead?"

Is that a threat? No, just a sensible clarifying question from a man who might still be holding onto my secrets centuries after I'm dust. So, who gets the legacy? No question, really.

"Once I'm gone, tell MacLeod. He gets to decide if anyone else should know." Mac's terrible at keeping secrets, but this feels like the right thing to do. There's an odd satisfaction in knowing that if I never get to have this conversation with MacLeod, he still might hear it from Jean-Pierre, someday.

Jean-Pierre is watching me carefully. He raises his right hand and makes the symbol of the cross on his forehead. "I swear it, by God, the Spirits, and the Dead."

Whoa. Never seen anything like that before, but it sure looks binding. Swearing by God used to mean that breaking the oath would endanger your immortal soul. Jean-Pierre probably still believes that. He's taking this very seriously. More seriously than I took my Oath, anyway.

"Good. Here's the second condition: I want the rest of your story, including Rwanda." This condition isn't for me, and it isn't for the Watchers. This one is for Jean-Pierre. Secrets and guilt are a poisonous combination. I should know. If Jean-Pierre's going to survive long enough to be my messenger to MacLeod, he needs to get it off his chest.

Jean-Pierre's throat works for a moment. "I will tell you, Joe, but not here, not tonight." There's an edge of panic in his voice. "For that I will need … sunlight. Sunlight and the sound of the sea."

He reaches out blindly for the water bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes a gulp. "Do you have a car, Joe? Can you drive?"

I keep my voice low and soothing, like talking to a scared dog that might bite. "Sure, I have a car. I can drive."

"Good. Then when you decide it is time, I will drive with you to the sea. There I will tell you everything you ask. Is it enough?"

I find myself echoing his formal language. "It is enough. I'll tell you the story of James Horton. But for it to make sense, you're going to need to know a little more about me."

Jean-Pierre looks relieved. He smiles at me and says, "Of course. Storytellers and their stories are always entwined."

"I was fighting in Vietnam in 1968 when I stepped on a land mine. An Immortal saved my life. He carried me 16 miles on his back, out of unfriendly territory to the firebase."

Jean-Pierre interrupts, "Was it Duncan MacLeod?"

Now wouldn't that have been nice. "No, it was my sergeant, Andrew Cord." Jean-Pierre must recognize the name from what MacLeod told him. He looks like a little light bulb just went on over his head.

"The doctors had to take both my legs to save me." I rap my cane against each of my prosthetic knees, just in case he missed it.

Jean-Pierre cocks his head to listen to the dull plastic thuds.

"I was pretty messed up about it. But I wanted to thank the Sergeant, for pulling me out of there. They told me that Cord was dead. Now I had seen Sergeant Cord die a few minutes before I was hit, but I also knew he had saved me. I insisted he was alive. I wouldn't shut up about it."

"Why not?" This is gonna be like story-time with a little kid. I guess story telling is a two-person job, for Jean-Pierre. At least it lets me know he's paying attention.

"I don't know. I'd always been a very active person – a football player. I couldn't imagine life without my legs. That leaves a pretty big hole, when you can't imagine your own future. So … I guess I just needed something else to make a fuss about."

Can I use Ian's name here? Yeah, he's dead. It can't hurt. But no living Watchers' names, I promise myself. "That's when Ian came to see me in the hospital. Ian told me that he knew that Cord was alive, because Cord was Immortal. He showed me his tattoo, told me about the Watchers, and invited me to join."

"Were you sure joining the Watchers was the right thing to do?"

"Oh yeah. I couldn't go home the way I was. Couldn't get a factory job with no legs, and somehow I doubted that my football scholarship would be renewed when I got back. Immortals, the Watchers … it was like some kind of crazy dream, but I wanted it. I had a future again."

"I spent most of a year in a military hospital in Hawaii – physical therapy, occupational therapy, and counseling. I could have been out of there in a couple of months if I was willing to settle for a wheelchair, but I wasn't. I pushed myself hard in PT, harder than I was supposed to. The Marines might think I was unfit for duty, but I was going to be a Watcher. I was gung-ho and ready to go by the time I reported to Watcher Academy."

I'm interrupted by Jean-Pierre's water bottle rolling across the table and smacking into my hand. Good thing I decided on the plastic bottles, if we're gonna play catch with the damn things. "What?" I sound a little cranky.

Jean-Pierre leans across the table and shows his teeth in a little smile. "Joe, in my experience there are three types of lies: lies to disguise the truth, lies to reveal the truth, and lies to change the truth. Which one are you telling me, and why?" His tone of voice is pleasant, but I can't help but read the movement as a threat.

What lie? I replay my words in my mind. I was just talking about getting out of rehab. Oh. Okay, so maybe I wasn't in that great shape when I got out. Jesus, the guy's a freaking lie detector. I'll need to be very, very careful when I get to parts of this story that an Immortal has no business knowing. "I just try not to focus on the bad parts, Jean-Pierre. But, fine, if you really want to hear about it …" I roll the water bottle back to him.

He snags it right on the edge of the table and relaxes back into his chair, balancing the bottle on his knee. "I do. The bad parts and the good. Anything that you feel strongly about, that's what I need to hear. It's the only way for me to know the man James Horton truly was."

Anything I feel strongly about? Okay, I can do that. I rearrange the story in my mind, changing it from a Chronicle-like reporting of events to more like my private journals, focusing on the things that mattered most to me.

"My last month at the hospital was pretty rough. I was trying to wean myself off the pain pills; they made me too groggy. So I was anxious, moody, and I couldn't sleep a wink. Ian sent along some State Department books and cassette tapes to help me learn French, so I'd be ready for the Academy classes. I spent the nights practicing fingering on the guitar and whispering to myself in French, real quiet. The other 12 guys on the ward needed their sleep. I caught some naps during the day."

"When I left the hospital I had one piece of luggage for the plane. I'd shipped my guitar and a box of clothes ahead to the Academy in France. I had this strange disconnected feeling. As a boy, I'd been defined by my role in my family. At 18 I joined the Marine Corps. I was on my way to become a Watcher, but I wasn't one of them yet. There was no one in charge of me, no responsibilities. I felt if I stepped off my carefully planned itinerary I might just float away, end up wandering the world."

Jean-Pierre laughs with delight. "Joe! That's my Immortal life you've just described!"

I shudder. It had been terrifying, feeling that rootless. Why would Jean-Pierre choose that kind of life?

"When I arrived at the Watcher Academy I found that Ian had paired me up with James Horton for a roommate. He was some kind of 4th generation Watcher from England. Ian thought we'd be good for each other."

"What did you think of him?"

"At first glance I wasn't too impressed. The south-side Chicago boy in me said he was a trust-fund kid. That was true. The Vietnam vet in me said he was green as grass. That was also true. But the guy who'd just spent the afternoon being told that my French accent was atrocious and that everyone should know the proper term for beheading ... Well, that guy needed a friend. And James Horton turne d out to be a good one." I pause to sip at my water and smile at that first memory of James.

"What was he like then?"

"James was smart as a whip. He could be charismatic, but he didn't suffer fools gladly. The man had a sense of humor that could etch glass. Made more enemies than friends at the Academy, that's for sure. He was close to my age, but didn't know much about the real world. The thing that brought us together, more than anything else, was that we were both driven. James was just like that naturally. Everything he did, he had to be the best. As for me, I had something to prove to everyone, and especially to myself." It was nearly an obsession. All of my self-respect had somehow become dependent on my success at the Watcher Academy.

"So what is your most important memory of James Horton from that time?"

I flip through my memories like a pack of cards. Plenty of well-worn happy ones in here, but I pull out the one that burns coldest. "It was after-dinner, Sunday of the third week of orientation. All of the evaluations and introductions were over.  
Tomorrow the real Watcher classes would start. Someone had slid an envelope under my door. I picked it up and took it over to my desk to read."

In my memory I can see the flecks of dust in the bright sunshine streaming down onto my desk; that precisely typed and impersonal letter blurring before my eyes. "Turns out that I was formally excused from all Field Craft coursework. For this quarter, that would include Surveillance, Forensics, and Pistol Fundamentals. In its place I was being offered a special tutorial on modern and ancient French languages."

I remember sitting at that desk, feeling like I'd been gutted with a frozen bayonet. Feeling like a hole had opened up beneath me and I was falling with nothing to catch me. Twenty-five years, and this memory still hurts. "All I'd done, and they were just going to stick me behind a desk. Unfit for active duty. Unfit. I must have sat there for over an hour like that. It was dark by the time James came bounding in."

"When I handed him the letter he started swearing and pacing, then turned to me insisting he had a plan. I told him that fragging the Head of the Academy wouldn't get me a place in the Field Craft classes. James's plan was simple – ignore the letter. Show up to classes everyday as planned." I can hear James' voice in my head, `You think they'll make a scene Joseph? Trust me, they will never, ever make a scene.' The passionate scorn in his voice pulled me out of crushed defeat and into rebellious planning.

Jean-Pierre whispers, "Did it work?"

"Hell yeah it worked! They sent another letter. I sent back a confused response. They sent a clarifying letter. I responded with a request that they clear up a point of Academy protocol related to their letter. It gave me enough time to prove I could get the job done. And that turned out to be the next problem."

"The Field Craft classes were difficult for you?"

"The Pistol class was a joke for a Marine qualified marksman. Forensics was a fun challenge. But Surveillance was a bitch. It should have been easy. You don't survive on point in the bush without developing certain skills and awareness. But that was back when I had two good legs. As it was, I couldn't move fast. On some terrain I couldn't move quietly. On others I could barely move at all. Some of the normal surveillance strategies just didn't work for me. I wasn't going to be climbing any trees with a telephoto camera."

Vemas. He's dead now, too. I'm a little young to be out-living everybody, but I guess Watching Immortals is a dangerous occupation these days. Well, Jean-Pierre asked for anything I felt strongly about. And nobody could piss me off like Vemas.

"Vemas pointed out the problem with climbing trees, first week of class. Asshole. I admit I had a chip on my shoulder back then, but he pushed every button I had. Vemas was always making little remarks in flawless Parisian French, sighing at how long it took me to get up the stairs, rolling his eyes when I asked questions. The day James posted Vemas's daily pistol silhouettes next to mine in the dorm, it broke out into open warfare. The jerk-off was a pretty good shot, but he wasn't in my league. My groupings that day were tight even by my standards." I remember James' sly little grin when I asked him how he got his hands on those silhouettes.

"Vemas came into the Forensics Lab that night when I was getting in a little extra lab time, accused me of trying to humiliate him. I told him he was doing a fine job of humiliating himself on the range, didn't need my help at it. Turned into quite the shouting match, then he yelled I would be a liability in the field, get men killed. So I swung at him. Might not have been the smartest thing, but it sure did feel good until his right-hook dumped me on my ass."

Jean-Pierre breaks in. "Joe, why start a fight you knew you couldn't win?"

Mac wouldn't need me to explain this to him. "Jean-Pierre, you don't have to win a fight against a bully, but you need to make him feel it the next day." The Chicago boy in me whispered that if a cripple showed any sign of weakness, they'd be on me like a pack of wolves.

Jean-Pierre shrugs, like he's too polite to disagree.

"So when Vemas came over to check on me I smacked him in the back of the knees with my cane and knocked him over. His boxing skills didn't help much on the ground, and I had plenty of upper-body strength. Wasn't going too bad until we rolled into an equipment rack packed with state-of-the-art electronics. The Academy took a cut out of both our paychecks for years to cover the damage. Vemas hated my guts after that, but he didn't mess with me much anymore."

I was surprised when Mac told me that Kalas had killed Vemas. He always reminded me of those soldiers in Vietnam that were just too mean to die.

Jean-Pierre stretches his hand into my field of vision to get my attention. "So what did you do about the Surveillance class, Joe? Did James Horton help?"

"I needed to work out my own Surveillance strategies. For that I needed a subject, and lots of practice time. So James got drafted to play the Big Bad Immortal. For months we spent three nights a week and 4 hours of daylight on Sunday running through our own surveillance scenarios. I shadowed him through malls, airports, alleys, galleries, warehouses, sewers, forests, meadows, swamps and beaches. God, I hated the beaches." Unstable footing, sand getting into the prosthetic joints and abrading my stumps; beaches are hell.

"If you would prefer to avoid the ocean, Joe, we don't need to visit it together." Jean-Pierre looks concerned.

"Nah, just don't make me try to trail you unobserved at speed through deep sand, and we'll be fine." Most of the beaches around here aren't too sandy, anyway. I do all right on dunes with beach grass. I'll be driving, so I can find a decent place.

"One night James caught me dead-to-rights in the middle of an alleyway. Damn dangerous spot to get caught by an Immortal, and he was playing the threat up. He stalked up to me, asked me what the hell I was doing here. So I told him I lived in this alley, stuck out my hat and asked if he could spare a few francs. He broke character, started laughing so hard he fell over and was rolling around in that nasty alleyway."

It's a good memory, and it was a good lesson for me. Unless you are following your Immortal into someplace up-scale, for urban surveillance it's best to dress just on the neat side of down-and-out. Gives you a perfect excuse for loitering, and most folks, Mortal or Immortal, would rather ignore the homeless than look close. The occasional pitying do-gooder that wanted to help a homeless vet pissed me off, but it was worth it to get the job done.

"Joe, if Horton was so driven, so ambitious, why did he spend so much time on these surveillance scenarios with you?"

"Well, it helped him perfect his skills, too. But James mainly did it because he knew how important it was to me. I had to be better than the others, to earn a field assignment. So he helped me, because he was my friend."

"So you grew close over these months?"

"We did. When I visited my family at Christmas, I brought James with me."

"He did not have family of his own to visit?"

"No. James's father was Watching some mobile Immortal in South America. His mother had divorced his father years before. I never got the impression they were close. So he didn't have any family obligations."

"And you felt you needed him there, when you saw your family?"

I nod. "It was the first time I'd seen them, since I lost my legs." I remember the tears in my mother's eyes, my father's silences, and my little cousin's questions. Having a guest there kept everyone polite.

"James really turned on the charm, kept everyone chatting and laughing. And he was a pro when it came to convincing lies about the Watchers. He made it seem perfectly reasonable that some rich and mysterious international company recruited a double amputee vet straight out of rehab for specialized training. I guess James' father had managed to convince his own family of some whoppers in his time."

"My sister fell for James, with his English accent and fancy manners. He kissed her hand when they first met. That was all it took to sweep a south-side Chicago girl off her feet."

Jean-Pierre smiles fondly at the image. "So it was love at first sight?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. James was never a romantic." Not like me. Falling for Laura when I knew she was married was one thing. Getting her pregnant - not my finest hour. Better focus back on James, before Jean-Pierre starts asking about my love life.

"He liked Catherine, and he was attracted to her. But I think all James ever needed from his wife was that she be a good mother to his children. That was what it was like for his parents. For James, his work always came first."

Jean-Pierre purses his lips. "Was this also what Catherine wanted?"

"I warned her about how focused James was on his job. She liked the idea of a rich corporate husband, especially when she found out that it would mean living in Europe. They got married that summer."

When I glance up at Jean-Pierre I can see him hesitating with a question on the tip of his tongue. "Spit it out, Jean-Pierre."

"Do you think James Horton married Catherine because she was your sister?"

"What? No. I mean, he made a big deal about the two of us being family after he married Catherine, but he wouldn't have married her if that was the only reason." Would he? They never were that close. I'm not even sure about that anymore.

Jean-Pierre nods, as if that's the answer he was expecting. "So what happened next, between the two of you?"

"Not much. After we graduated from the Academy I got stuck in a research post for a while. James was finishing up his doctorate. We kept in touch, but didn't spend much time together. Eventually we both got field postings." Even with top scores in surveillance, my constant requests, and Ian's support, they still didn't want to give me a field internship. I still wonder how much James's back room politicking had to do with my assignment to Watch Roy Ferrer.

"In 1975 James volunteered for Watcher field duty in Cambodia. James asked me to look after Catherine and their daughter Lynn for him. I requested re-assignment to Watch another Immortal, so I could be close to them. I'd proven myself in the field by now, so it wasn't any problem."

"Why did James want to go to Cambodia?"

"Field duty in war zones is a quick way to move up the ranks among the Watchers, same as in the military. James called it an opportunity, thought it would be some kind of great adventure. He had no idea what war was really like."

"So what happened?"

"He wrote a couple of letters in the first month, then nothing for 6 months. James just showed up on my doorstep one night. He told me he'd requested re-assignment, and some leave. James didn't want Catherine and Lynn to know he was back in the USA. He crashed on my couch for a couple of weeks."

It strikes me suddenly that Jean-Pierre is crashing on Mac's couch after escaping a war zone, just like James did. Maybe there really is some connection here.

"Joe, why did he come to you?"

"When we were room-mates at the Academy, I would have nightmares sometimes. They'd wake us both up." I look up at Jean-Pierre. "I still get them. One of the little enlistment perks military recruiters don't mention." He nods slowly, swallowing. Oh yeah, Jean-Pierre knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"One night James asked me if I was dreaming about real events, things that had happened to me in Vietnam. I told him I was, and he asked me if I wanted to talk about it. When I said I didn't, he never asked again. But I guess when he saw more than he could handle in Cambodia, he figured I had some kind of answers for him."

When I look up, Jean-Pierre's expression is haunted, mixed with a desperate hope. I recognize that look. I'd seen it on James's face. I welcome the sudden heat of anger over the cold, empty memory of failing a friend. "Damn it, Jean-Pierre! No, I couldn't make it all better for James, and I can't for you either!" If I could, maybe none of this would have happened.

Jean-Pierre sits back, face wiped clean of expression. "So what did you talk about while he crashed on your couch for those weeks?"

"James talked about what he'd seen. At that point, early in the Khmer Rouge take-over, I guess it wasn't too different from other wars. People hungry, sick, injured in artillery barrages. No medical supplies or personnel. Refugees all over. The military ignoring the locals at best, raping, looting, and killing at worst. Officials who did nothing to discourage even the worst abuses of power."

Jean-Pierre nods. "I've seen that, too many times. What did James do?"

"James pretty much did nothing. Watchers aren't supposed to interfere. He was playing by the book, hoping for a promotion. The last straw for him was when a group of refugees was hiding out in a warehouse. James knew that the Immortal he was Watching stored drugs in that warehouse. He was tempted to warn them, but he knew he wasn't supposed to draw attention to himself. So he left them there. The next day the Immortal returned with his mercs, found the villagers, and shot them all. James requested a transfer the same day."

Jean-Pierre pops up out of his chair and takes off for the john, muttering something about too much beer. It's a pretty flimsy excuse. I'm guessing those villagers getting shot hit a little close to home. I wait for him to get back.

A couple of years ago I wrote a proposal for an additional class to be taught at the Watcher Academy, on the Ethics of Non-Interference. They didn't go for the idea, but I still think we need something like it. I mean, the Rule is that we do not interfere. We swear an Oath on it. But how far does that go? Can we call the cops if our Immortal mugs someone? How about calling 911 after they've left the area? Stopping a little kid from interrupting a Challenge? Why, or why not?

The Oath doesn't cover every situation. Even if it did, "because that's how we've always done things" is a pretty cold comfort when you face ghosts in the night. It got to James back in 1975. It's gotten to me on occasion. Hell, even the Roman Catholic Church lets people discuss Church Doctrine, if only to discourage heresy and reduce the risk of schism. And schism might be what's happening to the Watchers.

We've got old-school Watchers like Ian, who don't interfere or interact with Immortals in any way. We've got Hunters like James, who want them dead. And then there's me, and maybe a few others like me, who think that sometimes getting involved is the only decent choice left.

The Watchers didn't want an ethics class at the Academy. Maybe they'll take the other approach the Catholic Church has used in dealing with heresy. Burn the heretics. Now there's a pleasant thought.

Jean-Pierre returns to the table looking a lot calmer than when he left. A few drops of water in his hair catch the light as he sits down. Splashing cold water on his face, maybe? I let him get settled, take a few sips of my water, and then continue.

"Anyway, James spent a couple of weeks talking to me. I told him some of what I'd seen, what I'd done, and how I felt about it. He seemed ... okay with things by the end. James went back to Catherine and Lynn. The Watchers seemed pretty impressed with his recovery. He was given an important administrative post. In 1979, I was assigned to Watch Duncan MacLeod."

Jean-Pierre asks, "You've been Watching Duncan ever since?"

"Sixteen years and counting. It's been a privilege. But we've only been speaking to each other for last two years. Now, James, on the other hand … when he returned to the field, he volunteered to Watch the Kurgan."

I'm interrupted by Jean-Pierre's sharp intake of breath. "I take it you've heard of the Kurgan?"

"Joe, we've all heard of the Kurgan. Even Immortals need a boogey-man to tell stories about around the camp fire."

The image of a bunch of Immortals trying to scare each other with Kurgan stories makes me chuckle, but it sounds hollow. "Yeah, well, he treated Mortals just as badly as he did Immortals. We hadn't been able to keep a Watcher on him for over a century. Too dangerous. But James always loved a challenge. And he really was very good at surveillance. James managed to stay on the Kurgan for four years."

Jean-Pierre looks queasy. "Four years following that one? Watching what he did to Mortals and Immortals?"

"Yeah. The Kurgan would move into an area, either a small town or a really poor neighborhood in a big city. Then he'd terrorize the people. Take anything he wanted – food, cars, money, women. Kill anyone who protested. Eventually, when he'd broken the locals completely, he'd get bored and move on. James documented the whole thing five times in the years he Watched the Kurgan."

"The leaders of your Watchers, they did not try to stop him?"

"Stop the Kurgan? No, the Watchers have strict rules against interfering with Immortals. Or do you mean stop James?"

"They didn't try to make him stop Watching, or take a break?"

"No. I think we all admired him, for having the balls to try Watching the Kurgan, and the guts to stick with it. The Kurgan wasn't the nastiest Immortal we Watched, just one of the more dangerous ones." Evan Caspari is the textbook example. Cannibalistic Immortal serial killers tend to burn out their Watchers pretty fast. Before he was committed to that mental institution, we rotated field agents on Caspari every three months.

"We sure did throw quite a party when Connor MacLeod took the Kurgan out, though."

Jean-Pierre takes a sudden interest. "So does it matter to you Watchers, which Immortals live or die? Do you care?"

That's a hard question to answer. The fact is that a lot of Watchers see the Game as some type of grand sporting event. They place bets on which Immortals will Challenge each other and who will win. They even set up handicaps. MacLeod's has gotten pretty steep lately. It's mostly the researchers; the ones who never get to meet an Immortal in the flesh see it that way. I don't allow that sort of thing here. But betting on the Game is a popular pastime in Paris. And I don't really want to share any of this with Jean-Pierre. Not that I'll lie. I'll just choose which pieces of the truth to tell him.

"I care. Field agents who are assigned to Watch Immortals who live decent lives get to care about them. I was praying for MacLeod for years before we ever spoke to each other. When Fitzcairn died in Paris last year, a group of Watchers threw a wake in his memory. And when Darius was killed; a lot of us mourned him." Aww hell, not the right name to bring up right now.

Jean-Pierre grimaces. "Not all of you, clearly. So, are we ready to speak of Darius yet?"

"No. No, not quite yet." I take a pull from my water bottle, and then plow on. "The Watchers pulled James in for a psych evaluation and then sent him home for a few months leave." Catherine and Lynn hadn't seen James in years. He got to be there for Lynn's 13th birthday. I still remember that party. Much too little-girlie for Lynn, but she didn't care. She was just glad to spend time with her Dad.

"How did he seem to you? Was he much changed?"

"He was quieter. He'd lost his innocence in Cambodia, but Watching the Kurgan had taken him deeper into the darkness. James just wanted to spend time with his family. I tried telling him some funny stories about MacLeod, but James didn't want to talk about Immortals at all, which was strange, for him. Normally you had to force the guy to take a break. After his leave was up, the Watchers assigned James another Immortal, Blake Wilmington."

"What was this one like?"

"Wilmington had been an enforcer for the Mob before he died. He was a robber, but not a very good one. A lot of his plans tended to go south. He'd revive after all the bullets were done flying, but the guards, cops, and bystanders wouldn't."

"That seems a strange assignment for a man of Horton's proven skill."

"Wilmington wasn't smart, but he was convinced the FBI was tracking him. Made it tough to keep up proper surveillance. And he wasn't supposed to be too dangerous."

"I see. So, this assignment was a break for James, after Watching the Kurgan?"

"That was the idea, I think. It didn't turn out too well. Have you ever heard of the Amusement Park Massacre?" Jean-Pierre shakes his head. "The FBI finally tracked Wilmington down in 1988. He thought he could shake them by holding a whole amusement park hostage. As usual, it blew up in his face. There were over 100 casualties, mostly children."

Jean-Pierre winces. "How did James react?"

"I don't know. It's not in his records. We pulled him in and sent him to Geneva for a full psychiatric evaluation. I guess he passed it, because they sent him right back to Watching Blake Wilmington."

Even now, I find this kind of hard to believe. Did Horton just manage to hide the fact he was losing it from everyone? How the hell could the psychiatrist expect James to Watch an Immortal massacre little kids and not go around the bend after what he'd already been through?

"After Lynn graduated from high school and moved out, Catherine filed for a divorce. She said that, even when James was home, it was like he wasn't there anymore. Wilmington disappeared a few months later. I don't have any proof, but I think he was the first Immortal James killed."

Jean-Pierre stands up and paces around to my side of the table. "I think I understand. First the killing of refugees in Cambodia, then the Kurgan's depredations, and finally the amusement park massacre. Each time James Horton did nothing to stop the evil he Watched. I can understand why he decided to kill Immortals who would commit such acts."

He squats down next to me, touching my shoulder. "But Darius had not harmed anyone, Mortal or Immortal, in over a thousand years! Why him?"

"Jean-Pierre, Darius wasn't the second Immortal he killed. James had been promoted into a position of responsibility. He was my supervisor. I thought … I thought maybe he felt awkward about it, and that was why he wasn't speaking to me. But he was using his authority to recruit other Watchers. He was using his access to information to find loose Immortals who were un-Watched, or barely Watched. And he and his recruits were killing them." We still don't know how many. That's the irony. James probably could have gotten away with what he was doing for another decade.

Jean-Pierre stands up. I have to tilt my head back to keep an eye on him. His voice is cold. "Did he ever try to recruit you?"

"No. No, he never did." That kind of surprises me. Still, James probably knew me well enough to know I would never go for it.

"But there were other Watchers involved?"

Got to be careful here. "Yes. We think we found them all, Jean-Pierre. We've taken care of it." I hope we found them all. But I still don't know what happened to them.

Jean-Pierre stalks back to his chair, turns it around so the slats are facing me, and sits with his arms braced on the chair back. "Very well, Joseph. Tell me. Why did James Horton kill Darius?"

"His excuse was that Darius had one of our Chronicles in his possession. But I don't think that was the real reason. James thought all Immortals were Abominations. He was afraid whoever won the Prize would use it to dominate humanity. James didn't just want to kill evil Immortals. He wanted to kill all Immortals. And so, being who he was, James couldn't stick with the small fish; not when there was Big Game available."

Jean-Pierre has a white-knuckle grip on the chair-back. "Are you saying that James Horton killed Darius because he was … famous?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Darius was the most well-known and beloved Immortal in our Chronicles. He was our `great hope'."

Jean-Pierre stares at me for a moment, then launches out of his chair towards the back wall of the bar. He reaches it, turns, and powers back towards me. I tense up, but Jean-Pierre doesn't even glance my way. As he swings past the table I can hear him muttering under his breath in some language I don't speak – Arabic maybe? It isn't until he gets to the front of the bar and spins around for another lap that I recognize his behavior. Jean-Pierre is pacing and swearing. Now that's a comfortingly normal reaction. God forbid I ever get stuck in a room with him and Mac during a crisis. They'd bounce off each other like pool balls.

It gives me some time to think. Everyone who knew Darius loved him, Mortals and Immortals alike. Killing him was stupid. It drew Immortal attention to the Watchers, and Watcher attention to the Hunters. The problem is, James was never stupid. He was very, very smart, and he always had a plan. So, what am I missing that would make killing Darius a smart move?

Let's assume that Mac didn't survive, or didn't find James, or that I didn't believe him when he told me Watchers were hunting Immortals. What could have happened? Was James planning some kind of coup in the Watchers? He would have needed powerful inside help to pull it off. There's no proof that he had any. In fact, I would think I'm just getting paranoid in my old age, except for one thing: Ian Bancroft.

Ian wasn't only Darius's Watcher. He was also the Coordinator for Western Europe. From what he told me, Ian knew that Mortals took Darius's head. He had launched an investigation, when he was suddenly demoted and sent to Hong Kong to Watch May-Ling and get counseling. They moved him away from his own power-base.

James didn't have that kind of influence. I'm not sure who did, but I know whatever shake-ups happened last year didn't reach that high up. Office politics have never been my cup of tea. But if it's turning into a blood sport, I need to get involved. What if all of the men James recruited weren't shot? What if they were all just quietly moved to another station, to continue their 'good work'?

I'll give Adam Pierson a call. The brilliant, quirky young researcher Don introduced me to years ago should be able to sniff around and find out if anything's up. The fact that Adam also happens to be a 5,000-year-old Immortal just gives him a bit more incentive to find out if there are Hunters trying to control the Watchers.

Jean-Pierre plops back into his chair. He still looks pissed, but I don't think it's me he's mad at. "Very well. Tell me how it ended, then. How did Duncan find James Horton?"

"Darius had left some clues. They didn't lead MacLeod to James. They led him to me. Mac walked into the bookstore I was running at the time, asking my opinion on the Chronicle Darius had found."

"How did you react?"

"My assistant Robert was scared stiff, but I was excited to have a chance to speak to him, after all those years. As far as I knew, Darius had been taken out by another Immortal. MacLeod tried to tell me that my people had killed Darius, but I was sure he was wrong about that. I told him about the Watchers, and managed to convince him that I wasn't involved, anyway."

"Did you feel that you were in danger from Duncan?"

"Not really, no. MacLeod had always been very careful of Mortal lives. He wouldn't hurt me unless he was sure I was an enemy. I knew that I wasn't. And I trusted him to figure that out."

"So how did Duncan finally meet James Horton?"

"James was throwing a party that evening, to celebrate Lynn's graduation from college. I reported my talk with MacLeod to James; he was my supervisor. James told me that MacLeod had killed one of our guys. I couldn't believe it. It didn't fit with what I knew about MacLeod, or the way he reacted when I spoke to him. That's when Mac walked in."

"He recognized James Horton?"

I take a sip of water. "Oh, yeah. It was obvious they knew each other. Even Lynn could see it. And that shouldn't have been possible. I had this strange double vision. James was pale and determined, ready to fight for his life. Duncan MacLeod, a man I had Watched and admired for 15 years, had this look of leashed anger and satisfaction. I recognized it. MacLeod only gets that look when he's Challenging a real evil bastard, the kind the world would be better off without. I could understand each man separately. But put them together – the picture didn't make any sense."

"There I was, in the middle of my niece's graduation party, and my best friend and my Immortal were at each other's throats. If Lynn hadn't stopped them, we'd be scooping bits of James out of the punch bowl. And I just stood there like an idiot, no idea what to do. Watchers weren't allowed to interfere in Challenges, but this wasn't a Challenge, it was … I didn't know what it was." I run a hand through my hair. "They just traded insinuations. I had no facts. Who was I supposed to believe?"

"So what happened?"

"That night … I mentioned my assistant Robert earlier? He was a young historian, fresh out of the Watcher Academy. Robert was a good kid. He and Lynn had fallen in love. They were engaged. Robert was murdered that night. James told me Duncan MacLeod had killed him."

"MacLeod came to see me the next morning. I thought he'd come for me too. Mac said he hadn't killed anyone, that I had to be blind not to see what was going on." I can still hear his voice mocking, `the softball coach is running a death squad on the side.' The breath explodes out of me in a sigh. "One of them had to be lying. And I finally knew who it was."

I stop to rub my temples. There's a blinding headache in there just waiting come out and play. I'm glad most of the lights are off.

"Joe?" Jean-Pierre looks worried. I try to fish up a smile to reassure him, but I doubt it's all that convincing. "Who killed Robert?"

"James. He was recruiting Robert to join his Hunters. Robert … wavered."

Jean-Pierre stiffens. "He killed one of his own men? A Watcher, and his daughter's beloved?"

"Yeah. James was always determined. If he decided something needed to be done, he never blinked. He just took care of it. I'd always admired that about him. I'm not sure when that moral courage turned into the kind of callousness that would let James murder a kid who looked up to him. I never saw it happen."

"How did you feel when you realized what James had done?"

"Angry. Betrayed! He had killed Darius, killed Robert, and tried to kill MacLeod, who was the best man I knew. It was totally wrong! And this wasn't some stranger. This was James, my friend, my family. I felt personally responsible."

"What did you do next then? Or was it Duncan?"

"Both of us. MacLeod called Horton, arranged to meet him down at the docks. I knew it would be an ambush, so I went down there to confront James myself. He was proud of what he'd done! When MacLeod showed up, James tried to hold me hostage. He threatened to shoot me unless Mac traded his life for mine."

"Do you think he would have done it?"

"I didn't believe it at the time. My head knew he was a killer, but my heart hadn't quite caught up yet." I'd fallen through the looking glass. My friend was an enemy. My family was killing each other. It takes time to believe something like that.

"Lynn came in, heard James talking about how Robert had been `collateral damage.' James tried to get her to leave. While he was distracted, MacLeod made his move. He forced that gun right up under James' chin. I thought I was going to have his brains splattered all over me. Lynn begged for his life. So did I. James was crazy, but he was my friend, and I thought we could save him. MacLeod spared him. He put the gun down on the table and walked away."

"James, he … the stupid son of a bitch picked up the gun and shot MacLeod in the back. Lynn grabbed for the gun. MacLeod was dying, but he still managed to draw his katana and skewer James with it. Three shots center-mass in Mac; two feet of steel in James' gut. They both collapsed to the floor." Like it was yesterday I remember the smell of blood on dusty concrete, and Lynn sobbing over the sound of the rain. I finish off my water and screw the cap on tightly. Very, very tightly.

"So. That's how it ended?"

I'm tempted to leave it there, but no. "It wasn't as easy as that. James's story isn't over yet. He was badly wounded. Lynn and I rushed him to the hospital. Somehow, he pulled through."

Jean-Pierre looks stunned. "What did Duncan do, when he found out James Horton was alive?"

This part isn't pretty. "He didn't do anything, because I told him James was dead. The Watchers even set up a fake funeral for his benefit. Empty casket, headstone, mourning party, the whole nine yards."

Jean-Pierre is giving me these sad puppy eyes. "Joe … why would you do that to Duncan?"

"Look, I admired the man, but it's not like MacLeod and I were friends back then. James was my friend, my brother-in-law. He had lost it, but I knew at least some of the reasons. I thought we could help James get his head back together, give him a chance to make amends for what he'd done."

"And did he?"

I can feel my face pulling into a scowl. "The doctors declared him cured after 2 months."

That's three times in this story the Watcher Department of Psychology and Counseling has screwed up big time. Twice they said James was fine, and once they declared Ian had lost it, just in time to deep-six his investigation. How the hell did I miss that? I think I'll ask Adam to pay special attention to that department when he's making inquiries.

"A few months later an Immortal teamed up with a group of Mortal gunmen to take out the competition. I didn't make the connection. Not until MacLeod told me that he had seen Horton with them. Even then, I lied. I told him James was dead. But I had to be sure James wasn't involved. I contacted him, asked him to meet me. MacLeod followed me to the meet."

"What did you find out from James?"

"I found out that my good old friend could lie to me with a straight-face for hours. When I got home, MacLeod was waiting. He thought I had been lying to him. He was wrong. I was lying to myself."

"He was angry?"

"Mac? Yeah. Yeah he was." That's not a conversation I like to remember. `The next time I see you, will be the last' is the closest to a death threat I've ever gotten, and it was from a man I considered a friend. Duncan MacLeod and James Horton were both men of passionate convictions, and they can be dangerous. I need to get some more mellow friends.

"I found where James and his pet Immortal were based, and told Mac. I betrayed James, and my Oath." I manage a hollow laugh. "And he must have known I would, because it was a trap. I almost got Charlie killed the first time right there. I gave up James, and ended up betraying MacLeod. How's that for symmetry?" My grin is all teeth and no joy.

"Perhaps it was his fate, to die entangled with your life and Duncan MacLeod's."

I'm too tired to be polite. "That's a load of crap, Jean-Pierre. Charlie died because Mac and I screwed up, not because it was his fate."

Jean-Pierre shrugs and looks away, unmoved.

I speed up, wanting to forget Charlie, wanting to get the next part over with. "MacLeod followed James to Paris. I followed them both. They had a big reunion. James, as always, had an escape plan. I pulled a gun on him. James just smiled, and said, "Joseph, we're family." I stop, and stare down at my hands lying there on the table.

"I shot him." I sound cold.

I feel cold.

Jean-Pierre reaches out to gently touch my wrist. "Joe, I'm sorry you had to kill him."

I laugh weakly. It's like some kind of sick joke. "I didn't kill him, Jean-Pierre. He showed up again 3 months later."

"James Horton returned from the dead again? How frightening that must have been for you." He seems completely serious.

"It looked that way, but he wasn't actually dead either time, Jean-Pierre. He must have been wearing a vest when I shot him." I should have gone for the headshot. I was close enough; it would have been an easy shot. But I didn't. Maybe part of me didn't want him dead. Or maybe I just couldn't shoot my old friend in the face.

Jean-Pierre doesn't look convinced. "Remember, Joe, there is an ocean of possibilities between life and death. For a hated enemy and a beloved friend to seek your death, and then believe that you are dead, is a type of death. James Horton must have been powerful to return from it twice."

If I think too hard about that I might get completely creeped out. Right, moving on. Men who rise from the dead don't embezzle, right?

"Well, the first sign of his miraculous return was large amounts of money disappearing from the Watcher accounts. James needed a small fortune for a bizarre plan involving Tessa Noel. Has MacLeod mentioned Tessa to you?"

He shakes his head. "No, I have not heard the name."

"You've probably seen her picture in the loft. A blond woman with a gorgeous smile? She was an artist. The metal sculptures Mac has up there are her work."

Jean-Pierre taps his forehead and nods. "Yes, I have seen them."

"MacLeod and Tessa were together for 13 years. He told her that he was Immortal, and actually proposed to her. They were so in love; it made me happy just to see them together. I used to talk to James about it a lot, especially when he and Catherine were going through hard times. Tessa died in '93, while James was in a Watcher mental institution. Mac took it pretty hard."

"James decided that MacLeod's love for Tessa, and the grief he felt at her loss, was a weakness. He broke a woman out of prison and had her altered to look like Tessa. Then he dragged her in front of Mac like fresh bait. Mac fell for it, hook, line, and sinker." Well, it looked that way at the time.

Jean-Pierre interrupts. "Did James Horton seem the same as before, or changed?"

"He was different. He tried to kill me, you know. Shot at me from a moving car. I'd be dead if Richie Ryan hadn't jumped in front and taken the bullets for me. James didn't even care enough to look me in the eye when he shot me."

"This plan was different, too. It was complicated and intentionally cruel. The information he was using to re-create Tessa wasn't in Mac's Chronicle. They were details I had told him myself, personal things. He didn't just want Mac dead, he wanted him to suffer."

"Obviously the plan failed."

"Yeah, Mac saw through it. But he still let it play out to the end, just in case he was wrong. I wouldn't have let her kill him, anyway. MacLeod had the woman pretend to shoot him, to draw James in. I lay down some covering fire, until James ran out of ammo. Then MacLeod chased him down, outside of the cemetery. James pulled a switchblade, and MacLeod killed him with it."

At least he got a chance to go out swinging. But I couldn't recognize my friend in the man that died that day. My cheeks are wet, and I'm really not sure when I started crying or why. The James Horton that died that day doesn't deserve my tears. Maybe I just needed to let myself get pissed off at the man James Horton turned into, before I could mourn the ambitious and idealistic Englishman who would do anything to help a friend.

"So, Duncan killed Horton once with a sword, you killed him a second time with a gun, and then Duncan killed him the final time with his own weapon? There's an old pattern to it. Fear and guilt turn to hate, then are overcome by friendship and love. It's a good story, Joe."

I have to snort, wiping my face on my arm. Next he'll be writing a Hallmark card about it. "Sure, Jean-Pierre, whatever works for you. Just don't pretty it up too much when you tell MacLeod. I want to him to hear the story the way I told it."

I'm wiped out, but I feel lighter, too. "I need to get to bed. Come on up to my place, I'll get you settled for the night."


	6. Dream On

**Chapter 6**

A few minutes later we’re upstairs. My place isn’t much, just a plain efficiency, all the walls stacked high with books, records and CDs. Still, for a guy who sleeps under bridges, it should be comfy enough.  
  
Jean-Pierre unbuttons his shirt. He slides the silk down over his shoulders sensuously, folds it and lays it on a chair in the corner. Is he always this neat, or is it just because the shirt is borrowed? His torso is lithe, but much too thin. I can count his ribs under the skin. It’s a little hot in here.

Why am I watching Jean-Pierre get undressed? Not part of my job description. Hey look, it’s still nighttime outside the window.

“Are we sharing the bed or do you want me on the couch?” Jean-Pierre asks in a dark, suggestive tone. His emphasis on the word ‘want’ pushes it past flirtation into seduction. I can’t believe I arranged for him to stay here over-night.

I don’t even want to know what’s going on in his head. No, I take it back. I deserve to know exactly what is going on in there!

“What the hell is wrong with you, Jean-Pierre? First you pull that bloody scene downstairs earlier tonight to convince me you’re not human, and then you proposition me? What am I, some kind of Watcher psychology experiment?”

Jean-Pierre blushes. He actually blushes. “I’m sorry Joe, I didn’t think of it like that. I’m just … feeling better tonight than I have in a long time. I thought it would be fun. And you have great hands, very sexy.”

Lauren loved my hands. A memory of her gasping as I run my hands down her naked back raises a flush of arousal chased by a spike of grief. She’s gone. Get a grip, Joseph. It’s been a year.

Somehow I doubt that my hands are sexy enough to suddenly throw Jean-Pierre into lust with me, so what’s his deal? He’s probably just a little crazed right now, and a lot lonely. Sometimes, when you need intimacy, you settle for sex. I’ve done it myself. It never seems to work out well.

Now, Joseph, you’ve been a musician for 30 years; you should know how to turn an offer down gracefully. “Thanks, Jean-Pierre, but no. You get the couch. I’ll be on the bed. There’s some extra bedding in the closet over there. Feel free to take a shower. I could use a little privacy to get ready for bed.”

Jean-Pierre is peering at me, looking a bit concerned. He shrugs and saunters towards the bathroom. At the last moment he turns, a mischievous grin on his face. “You’re sure? After all, I got to watch your hands stroking that Gibson all night long, but you only got to enjoy half of what I can do with my mouth.”

It surprises a laugh out of me. “Yes I’m sure! Now get in there, and make it a COLD shower, for Pete’s sake.” Scamp.

I’m feeling strangely cheerful, as I get ready for bed. I’m not sure how much is the ego-boost of being propositioned by an attractive young (looking) man and how much is finding a Watcher rule I actually haven’t broken, when given the chance. I should dig out that “Watcher Purity Test” Adam emailed me back in ’91, see what my score is like these days. I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of hearing about it.

Getting ready for bed I hear Jean-Pierre turn on the water. He starts singing in the shower. The words must be Creole, but the beat is slow and strong like one of the old Negro spirituals. The sound lulls me to sleep. And if my dreams that night were filled with bright eyes, sleek thighs, and a hot mouth both playful and passionate – well, who could blame me.

* * *

The next morning I wake to the soft creak of my floorboards. I squint through the morning light leaking through the windows to see Jean-Pierre performing some bare-ass kata. Wonder if he always works out that way, or if it’s for my benefit. Checking my bedside clock, I see it’s a little before 10am. No nightmares for either one of us last night. I’m a bit surprised, with all we dredged up.

I work my way up to a sitting position and watch Jean-Pierre with professional interest. It’s different than the kata I’ve seen Mac work through. This is a softer martial art, a Tai Chi variant. Jean-Pierre slides in slow motion from one form to another, holding each position until I can see his muscles quivering from a few feet away, then flows smoothly into another.

By daylight, he looks even more painfully thin than last night. Ribs, spine, and hips all protrude enough to cast tiny shadows on his skin as he moves. But I’m glad to see him doing something vaguely martial. It’s a sign he might be willing and able to protect himself if Challenged. Finally Jean-Pierre reaches down to put his hands flat on the ground. He pushes off into a handstand, and then flips back to his feet and shakes all over like a dog.

Jean-Pierre turns around with a grin. “Morning, Joe! Sorry to wake you. I would have gone downstairs, but I wasn’t sure what time the morning shift came on.”

“No problem, Jean-Pierre. I’m sure Katie would have enjoyed the show. Where’d you pick that up?” So I’m nosy. It’s considered a valuable asset in Watchers.

“A mean old man taught me this in a San Francisco park back in the 60’s.”

I yawn and stretch. “A Mortal? What was his name?”

“No idea. We didn’t have any languages in common. I called him Grandfather, and I believe he mostly called me ‘clumsy fool’. I slept in the park one night, and woke up at dawn to see him doing this. I stood behind him, trying to follow along. After a while he turned around and let me mirror, cussing me out in some language I’d never heard before and fixing my form whenever I made a mistake. We met every morning in the park for about a month, then he stopped coming. Never did find out what happened to him. But I still practice what he taught me.”

It’s an odd form of Immortality, to be remembered by a person who might live centuries.

By the time I take a shower and get downstairs, Jean-Pierre is cutting up some limes and flirting with Katie. He’s drinking some of the industrial-strength coffee she brews up every morning, but it takes both of us to bully him into eating something.

I check the work schedule for the week. I’m not signed up for any shifts tomorrow, so I arrange to drive to the ocean with Jean-Pierre then. I’m just finishing up my omelet when MacLeod sweeps into the bar.

MacLeod pauses to check that the Immortal he senses is Jean-Pierre, and then strides towards me, beaming. Well, someone’s in a good mood. I wonder if it’s because he had the loft to himself last night, or because he didn’t? Mac won’t kiss and tell, but I’m sure Maria will let me know.

Grace follows Mac in the door. She and Jean-Pierre hug and chatter away in animated French.

“Joe! Good morning!”

“Morning, Mac. How you doing?”

MacLeod pulls my earplugs out of his pocket and returns them to me while shaking my hand. “Good, thanks. That was a great idea, getting Jean-Pierre up on stage to sing last night. He was like a different man. And such a voice! So …” I see his lips twitch. “expressive.”

He is gonna rag me about that Romeo and Juliet thing for years. “Yeah, well, you’re just lucky you weren’t up there with him, Mac. Jean-Pierre probably would have made you tango with him.”

MacLeod grins. He and Amanda nearly set the place on fire dancing the tango once when she was in town. I have to wonder, would Amanda see Jean-Pierre as a fun new playmate, or as competition? “So, how did it go after we left, Joe?”

“Not quite the way I expected. Things got a little dicey there for a while.” I can’t help but glance over at the gouge on the floor, under the table next to the stage. I’m not sure whether I should buff it out, or leave it there to remind myself not to get complacent around Immortals.

MacLeod’s looking concerned.

“Nothing serious, Mac, I just didn’t realize that Jean-Pierre was dangerous.”

The crease is back in MacLeod’s forehead, and he’s moved so that he could draw his sword without me getting in the way. I don’t think Mac’s even aware of it. I swear, the man’s as protective as a Rottweiler. “All Immortals are dangerous, Joe. But I didn’t think Jean-Pierre was a danger to you.”

I shiver at the echo of last night’s conversation. No Immortal is human … All Immortals are dangerous. I sit down on one of the bar stools and gesture for MacLeod to join me. Katie’s in the kitchen, and Jean-Pierre and Grace are on the other side of the bar. They are laughing and, judging by their gestures, discussing Mac and I in ways that would make me blush to hear it. We can have a quick private conversation. MacLeod sits down and leans in close.

"Mac, when you told Jean-Pierre about the Watchers, he immediately assumed that we killed Darius. That's why he wanted to speak to me last night." Mac looks confused for a moment, and then pales.

"I'm just lucky that he's not a 'behead first, ask questions later' kind of guy. We worked it out."

"Joe, I never meant to put you in any danger."

"I know." I wish I could leave it there, but I can't. "But the fact is, you did. I need you to stop telling random Immortals about the Watchers, before you get me killed, Mac."

If not by a homicidal Immortal, then by the Watcher's Tribunal. By putting it this way, I've made it impossible for MacLeod to refuse.

"Of course, Joe."

“Thanks, Mac.” Well, there's a victory. ‘Course, using emotional blackmail against a friend doesn't make me feel great about myself. But it's better than having some Immortal out for vengeance against the Watchers for Darius's murder. If it turns out there are Hunters still running the Watchers, I’m going to need some maneuvering room.

But if it is true, and Adam and I can’t handle it, I’ll write out the envelopes and lick the stamps for MacLeod to tell every Immortal he’s ever met about the Watchers. Hunters won’t have the chance to take out Immortals unaware of them ever again, not on my watch.

Time to regroup. “So, what are your plans for the day?”

“Oh, I’ve got a class to teach this afternoon at the University. Grace is going to take Jean-Pierre clothes shopping. Do you know he came to Seacouver without anything but the clothes on his back?” MacLeod radiates adult disapproval.

“Come on Mac, cut him some slack. When you were his age you traveled foot-loose and fancy-free plenty of times.”

MacLeod opens his mouth to deny it, then sighs and raises a hand in surrender. I can quote dates and places, and he knows it. There are advantages to being an expert in a friend’s personal history. “I guess that’s true, Joe. Is there anything else I should know?”

Mac’s really asking if there’s anything he can do to help. The two of them do have one thing in common. They both deal with their stress by moving: pacing, running, dancing, katas. “If you can, try to get Jean-Pierre to go on one of those dawn marathon runs with you tomorrow morning. We’ll be driving to the sea, to talk about what happened in Rwanda. It’ll probably be easier if he’s tired out, instead of keyed up.” It can’t hurt anyway. And Mac needs to feel useful.

Once the three Immortals clear out I leave Katie to finish the prep work. I have a stack of paper work to file. There’s the Sighting Report on Jean-Pierre, Request for Assignment of a Field Agent who can keep up with him, Request to Expedite Assignment so the guy arrives before Jean-Pierre leaves town, and then the forms of Suggested Additions to a Third-Party Immortal’s Chronicles for the stuff Jean-Pierre told me. At least I get to sign-off on all those forms myself, since I’m Area Supervisor. That means I’ll be able to look Maria in the eye and tell her it’s all taken care of when I meet her and Gerard for lunch.

* * *

  
Jean-Pierre is leading me on a wildflower tour. Never something I thought I’d try, but it’s the perfect day for it. Mt. Rainer is lush and green, the air is warm, and the sunshine is golden honey. The dirt path is on a gentle incline, and he’s roped us together for the hike. “Its part of the mountain-climbing experience,” Jean-Pierre claims, with a little glint in his eye that makes me think I’m missing a joke.

We walk around an outcrop, and the path changes. The slope is steeper now. Instead of dirt, it’s covered in little bits of rock that move when you step on them. Scree, I think it’s called. About ten feet downhill from us is a sheer drop-off. This doesn’t look safe. I hesitate, but Jean-Pierre blithely continues along the trail. He reaches the end of the rope and turns to look at me.

“Come on Joe, the field’s just ahead.” He beckons me on with a smile. “You’ve never seen anything like it.” Jean-Pierre gives the rope a little tug, and it almost knocks me over. Now I’m a little scared, and definitely pissed off. What the hell am I doing hiking a mountain trail? It’s not safe, and I do not belong here. “No way, Jean-Pierre. I’m going back.”

A look of exasperation flashes over Jean-Pierre’s face, quickly replaced by a fond smile. “Look, Joe, it’s perfectly safe. I could walk this trail with my eyes closed!” Like the smart-ass he is, Jean-Pierre closes his eyes, stretches out his arms and starts walking back towards me like an acrobat on a tightrope.

The bit of rock under his foot slides away. With a gasp, Jean-Pierre opens his eyes and tries to catch himself, but now that whole part of the slope is moving. He’s slipping down towards the cliff, and the slack on the rope isn’t going to last much longer. I look around for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing

Just as Jean-Pierre goes over the cliff I’m jerked off my feet by the rope. Shit! He might survive this, but there’s no way I will! I’m on my ass on this nasty rock slope, but there’s no force pulling me downhill. What happened? “Jean-Pierre? Are you down there?”

MacLeod’s voice reaches up to me from the edge of the cliff, calm and confident. “Joe! Don’t worry, I’m fine. There’s a bit of a ledge here.” Whew! I should have known, Mac has everything under control. I feel some movement at the end of the rope. “But I can’t … quite reach the edge, to get back up. I just need an extra foot or so. Pull me up, Joe.”

I should be strong enough for that. I get a good two-handed grip on the rope and pull. For a moment nothing happens. Then the rocks under me start to slide. I stop pulling on the rope and slide another 6 inches down the hill before I’m stable again.

I hold very still, gasping for air. Ian’s voice, tightly controlled but with some real fear underneath, drifts up to me. “Joe? I don’t mean to alarm you, but this ledge isn’t very stable. I’m relying on you to pull me up, and I need you to do it now. Slow and steady, that’s the ticket.”

There’s no chance Ian can survive that fall. Maybe I can do this, if I go slow enough. Very gradually I pull the rope towards me. Think molasses. Think glaciers. Ever so slowly I slide another few inches downhill. It’s not going to work.

Lauren’s shriek grabs me by the throat. “Joe! Joe, I’m scared! Please, help me! Pull me up!”

Jesus, Lauren! I try, I really do. I haul on that rope and slide three more feet down the hill. Any more and I’ll be over the edge myself. There’s no way I can save her. It’s impossible.

I’m so close that I can hear Lauren’s quiet sobs, and the faint cracks and groans from the rock ledge below. Numbly I unhook the carabineer. I’m holding the rope loosely between my fingers when I hear the crash of the rock giving way. I let go. James screams out his shocked betrayal as he falls.

I jerk awake, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. Fuck! I switch on the bedside lamp. James’s scream hangs silently in the air. I grab for the CD remote and hit play. Janis Joplin’s vocals push their way into my little puddle of brightness. I can feel the dream out there in the darkness ready to pounce if I fall back asleep.

Well, that’s a new and different nightmare. I thought renting ‘Cliffhanger’ would help me relax. Guess not. No way am I getting back to sleep tonight. Might as well get up; try to get some work done. I glance at the clock. Hell, I got less than 3 hours sleep. Won’t that make tomorrow fun?


	7. Jean-Pierre's Tale

**Chapter 7**

It’s Wednesday morning and I’m reading the paper’s horoscopes to Katie and Alexa when Jean-Pierre dashes in through the back door. He starts zipping around the bar like the Tasmanian devil. He’s talking so fast it’s hard to understand. “Morning Joe, front door was locked! Hey there Katie! Who’s this? Nice to meet you!” He pauses in front of Alexa and gives her a blinding smile. It would be charming if he slowed down to normal speed. As it is, I feel exhausted just watching him.  
  
Alexa glances pointedly at me. “Oh, that’s Alexa. Alexa, Jean-Pierre. He’s the one you’re packing that picnic lunch for.”

She looks him up and down. “Hmm. In that case, I’ll pack more food.” Alexa heads into the kitchen and Jean-Pierre darts towards Katie. I manage to snag his sleeve as he passes me sitting at the bar. Jean-Pierre freezes. Is the son of a bitch high?

Jean-Pierre spits some words at me, in quiet machine-gun style; his gaze is locked on my hand as it touches his sleeve. “Hey, Joe, almost ready to go? Not quite yet? I’ll just see if Katie needs a hand, then. Bring your gun, okay?” I let go, and he immediately takes off.

Jean-Pierre isn’t high. He’s on the edge of panic. I’m tempted to call this off this little discussion about Rwanda. Being fucked up myself does not qualify me to help Jean-Pierre with his issues. At least I could put it off until another day when I’ve gotten a decent night’s sleep. It would give Jean-Pierre a chance to calm down, too.

I watch him as he chats with Katie and then moves into the storeroom to get something for her. Jean-Pierre is wearing khakis and a simple blue sweatshirt. Grace’s taste, probably. He looks like a well-dressed college student, except for the new hiking boots.

He bought a new pair of hiking boots before going walkabout in Ireland. If I let him off the hook today, I might never see him again. Scared as he is, he made it here today. God knows why, but he trusts me. Jean-Pierre needs to talk about it. So it’s time for a little tough love. I can do that.

I flip to the weather page of the paper. Partly cloudy, 20% chance of rain, highs in the low 60’s. MacLeod would move to one of the only places in the world where you need to know the difference between partly sunny and partly cloudy. Not bad weather for this time of year, and it should make it easier to get some privacy at the ocean.

I head upstairs to get my coat and gun. I always carry my Beretta when I leave home, which says something about my life. But it says something about my opinion of Jean-Pierre that I pack 2 extra clips in the harness today, just in case.

By the time I get downstairs Jean-Pierre has dragged four boxes out of the back for Katie, and is now juggling some limes in front of her. Christ. When he catches sight of me Jean-Pierre tosses the limes to Katie one by one, and picks up the picnic basket on the counter. I shepherd him out to the car, ignoring his frantic little cry that he needs to say goodbye to Alexa.

Jean-Pierre drops the basket in the back and slides into the passenger seat. He examines my hand-controls, and then takes possession of the radio. By the time I get us onto the highway he’s flicked us up and down the entire dial three times, and I’m starting to understand why Mac finds him so irritating.

I turn off the radio and slap Jean-Pierre’s hand when he tries to turn it back on. He blinks at me. “Jean-Pierre, let’s talk, okay?”

“Sure, Joe. What did you want to talk about?” He sounds miserable.

Over the next half hour, as we travel north on the I-5, I conduct an odd type of interrogation. Jean-Pierre will answer any question I ask, but he doesn’t initiate anything. I find out that Jean-Pierre flew in a plane once at a World’s Fair but wouldn’t want to travel in one. He missed Woodstock. He hasn’t recorded since the 50’s. He’s seen Bugs Bunny but only in French. Jean-Pierre agrees with me that Clapton is a god on acoustic or electric guitar, but really shouldn’t try to sing his own vocals. I also discover that Duncan MacLeod snores worse than an asthmatic camel.

Jean-Pierre’s responses are delivered in a monotone with occasional flashes of animation. His fear is a solid presence in the car. It’s like a big black dog in the back seat, panting its hot, stinking breath on the back of our necks.

As I pull off the highway and head west through a residential neighborhood, I try to dredge up another conversational gambit. “Jean-Pierre, why don’t you eat more? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Always, Joe.” I wait, sure that he’ll explain. “It is the only … control I have, over my body.”

My sudden surge of rage almost swerves the car over the middle line of the road before I rein it in. The only control he has over his body? How dare he say that!

Jean-Pierre can dance all night and do Tai Chi the next morning. He’ll never have to choose between the jagged edge of pain and the mindless fog of painkillers. He’ll never have to miss a friend’s wedding because he’s too sick to get out of bed. He’ll never need reading glasses. Jean-Pierre doesn’t fear losing his music if the arthritis in his hands gets too bad. He’ll never have to worry about lying around in his own shit until some bored nurse shows up to clean him. His body will never kill him because it’s just too worn out to work any more.

My mouth floods with the bitter taste of envy as I pull over into an empty driveway. I remind myself of the other side. Jean-Pierre can never have a child. He’ll always have to live a lie. He can never stay in one place too long, or people will notice he’s not aging. And then there’s the sword-wielding assholes coming after his head and threatening those he cares about, for the rest of his life.

I manage to pull myself together enough to look at Jean-Pierre. He is peering nervously at me. “I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t think I expressed myself very well there.”

No, really? Even running on a couple hours of sleep, I gotta admit that reaction was a little over the top. Guess my own mortality has been hitting me hard lately, hanging around with an eternally young, strong, and handsome Duncan MacLeod. It must be terrible for their lovers. And it must be devastating to watch a lover wither away and die from old age.

“Well, Jean-Pierre, why don’t you explain exactly what you do mean?”

Jean-Pierre stares at his own reflection in the side-window of the car. “My flesh is immutable, unchanging. Time leaves no mark on it. Joy and laughter or grief and tears, it makes no difference. This is what I am, forever. When I was in …”

Jean-Pierre stops, licks his lips, and exhales sharply, before starting again. “When things got bad, there wasn’t enough food. Sometimes there was none. What there was, we tried to save for the children. I was so hungry, especially after … coming back. Alone. I lost a lot of weight. My skin was loose.” He plucks at the skin of his forearm. I can see that it still is.

Jean-Pierre turns to me blindly, eyes full of tears. “When I got out, my body wanted to go back to exactly the way it was before. But I didn’t want it to. The things I had seen, felt, done. I’m not the same person I was, Joe. And for this body, this flesh, to be exactly the same, with no sign of it ... I couldn’t bear that! So. I stay hungry.”

I just meant to ask a casual question. I didn’t mean to open up this can of worms, not yet. Jean-Pierre wanted to drive to the sea. We’ll be there soon. I just need to calm him down a little first. “Well, you could always get a haircut. Or maybe a tattoo.” Adam’s Watcher tattoo seems to stay on normally.

Jean-Pierre gives a choked little laugh. “I’ll make you a bargain, then. You agree to tattoo ‘Joe was here’ on my ass, and I’ll agree to hold still for it.”

“Tempting, but no.” Between Jean-Pierre’s torch song Monday night, him still being there when Katie showed up for work Tuesday morning, and me asking Alexa to throw together a picnic lunch for us today, the rumor-mill at the bar is already in over-drive. It wouldn’t bother me, except that even the rumor that I’m sleeping with an Immortal could be a real problem if it got back to Watcher Headquarters.

I turn on the radio and tune it to KPLU. They always play instrumental jazz from 9-2. It’s pretty mellow and should give us both an excuse not to talk any more until we get where we’re going. Jean-Pierre huddles into his seat, turned away from me. I pull back onto the road.

We drive down the coast for a while, entering every dead-end and access road we come across. Finally I find a private spot, with decent footing for me. I park on the dirt road and roll my window down. The scent and sound of the sea flood into the car. I unbuckle my seat belt and turn to look at Jean-Pierre. His short, panting little breaths are slowing to match the rhythm of the waves. His shoulders had tensed nearly up to his ears, but I can see them relaxing now. Looks like Jean-Pierre knew what he was talking about, saying the sea would help him get through this.

Jean-Pierre turns to me, with a painful little smile on his lips. “Thank you, Joe, this looks good.”

We get out of the car and walk down a slight slope. There’s an old abandoned pier half-fallen into the water with a wooden shack on it. Between the road and the water is a creosote-soaked railroad track, a flat area covered in dune grass, and a seawall built of dark boulders. I carefully maneuver my way over the loose white rocks, splintering wood, and smooth metal of the tracks to get to the dune grass beyond. The rocks remind me of the nightmare from last night, and I can feel my heart speed up a bit. Some big logs have been dragged into a circle around a fire-pit. Looks like sitting on those will be my best bet. Wouldn’t be easy to get up from without Jean-Pierre’s help, but it’s better than standing the whole time. I settle down onto the largest log.

Jean-Pierre takes off his boots and socks, and then rolls up his pants legs. He clambers down the seawall into the water. He bends down to take a double handful of salt water. Jean-Pierre touches it to his lips, and then pours it over his own head. I’m reminded of a baptism. He stares west across the water for a minute. In clear weather we’d be able to see the Olympic Mountain range on the other side of the Puget Sound, but today gray waves meet gray sky a few miles out.

Jean-Pierre climbs back up the seawall, glances at me, and walks about 12 feet away. He picks up a stick, and digs a circle through the grass around himself. What is this, some kind of ritual?

12 feet is a little far for a conversation, even if it weren’t for the sound of the ocean waves. I have to yell a bit. “Jean-Pierre? Can you come a little closer?”

He lays the stick down and shakes his head. “No, Joe, this distance is good. You have your gun ready?”

I’ve been wondering about that. “Some special reason why you’re asking?”

He settles in the exact center of the circle in a lotus position. “Yes – if I step outside this circle without speaking to you about it first, you should shoot me.”

Sometimes I really can’t tell if he’s joking. “Are you serious?”

He stares up at me earnestly from inside his circle. “Very. Joe, I haven’t told anyone about what happened in Rwanda. I haven’t really let myself think about them. And you know, with Immortals, sometimes when we remember things, we relive them. I killed a man there. I wouldn’t want to hurt you, too.”

Oh, this is perfect. I should have brought a silencer. Vision-questing Immortal goes on rampage, Watcher shoots Immortal, concerned locals call the cops, and cops arrive just in time to catch Watcher and reviving Immortal. Maybe I could push Jean-Pierre’s corpse over the seawall and drive away?

I have to wonder how much of this is Jean-Pierre’s last-ditch attempt to avoid this talk. Whatever. I just need to get him talking. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you hurt anyone.”

I dust off my best no-nonsense command voice, useful for idiot Watcher interns and bands that think they’re gonna mess with my sound system. “We’re all out of excuses. Tell me about Rwanda, Jean-Pierre.”

He nods, swallowing nervously. “Sometimes, Joe, Mortals make the most amazing choices of mercy, self-sacrifice and love. Other times, they choose cruelty, hate, and evil. I’ve seen it many times before. What can I do? I smile, I sing, I listen to their stories and watch. I bear witness, and remember them. When it is too much, I walk away.”

That jerks me up short. I know that most Immortals aren’t heroes like MacLeod, but how can Jean-Pierre not even try to help? “Walk away? How can you do that?”

Jean-Pierre sighs and shrugs with one shoulder. “Joe, how old do I look to you?”

I don’t see a connection here, but I’ll play along. “Somewhere between 18 and 20.”

“Exactly. I died my First Death a bit too young, Joe. I have the look of a boy about to become a man. Grace and Duncan can stay in a place 10 or 20 years without much trouble. I can stay 3 years, perhaps 5 if I come in looking and acting my youngest. Then people notice. Richie will have the same problem.”

I wonder if Mac has talked to Richie about this? I doubt it. Richie still is the kid he looks like, in a lot of ways. Three years might seem like a long time to him now. But it’s too small a slice of even a Mortal lifetime. For an Immortal… “That would be a lot of goodbyes, Jean-Pierre.”

He nods, and is quiet for a minute. “It was hard at first, but it grew easier over the years. Now I rarely stay in a place for more than a year. So it was easy to walk away from the victims of evil. It was not my fate, they were not my people, and this was not my world. At first, I thought Rwanda would be the same.”

Jean-Pierre’s eyes grow distant, and his expressive features harden into an unemotional mask. “When the slaughter began I was killed along with the Tutsi family who had taken me in. I fixed their names and faces in my memory, and tried to walk away. But I couldn’t escape it. I spent 5 weeks trying to walk out of Rwanda. I was careless, perhaps. I would try to get food for those in hiding, try to scout a safe path. And I would die trying. 17 times I died, in those weeks. Sometimes I died alone, sometimes as one of many. But I always came back alone. I was starting to feel that I would be trapped in that place forever.”

Walk away my ass. Jean-Pierre was trying to help people escape. MacLeod did that, back in the 70’s. I’ve read his Chronicle from the Cambodian War. MacLeod made several trips in-country. He smuggled out groups of nuns and orphans. On his last trip, the kids were all killed in front of him. Mac hasn’t been back to Cambodia since.

Jean-Pierre shudders and uncrosses his legs. He hugs his knees to his chest and continues. “There were 27 of us, taking shelter in a Church. Holy Ground. We heard a jeep drive up outside. Someone from the village must have reported us. There were 8 of them. They were dressed in a mix of military and civilian clothes – militia. Militia was the worst. They had no rules holding them back.”

“Three of the men had machine guns. The rest held machetes. The one in charge marched in the door, very confident. He looked us over, then strutted to a 12-year old girl and grabbed her chin. He twisted her head to the side, and then pushed her to the floor. ‘Ugly,’ he said. ‘Not a decent looking woman left.’ We were all frozen.”

Jean-Pierre starts to rock back and forth slowly to the rhythm of his own voice. “The massacres had been going on for a month. The Tutsi whose instinct was to fight when frightened, they had died first. And then, the Tutsi whose instinct was to run, they had been killed. All that were left were the ones who would hold still, hide, be silent. And now it was our turn.”

His voice grows even more distant as he stares over my shoulder into empty air. “The man, the one in charge, he ordered us all against the wall. This was familiar. I had died against a wall 7 times. And I was going to wake up in a Church full of corpses again. I had died 4 times, on Holy Ground. And the number of people who had died around me … I had lost count.”

I can see Jean-Pierre’s gaze unfocusing. Shit! This is not a good time for a flashback. “Jean-Pierre?” Nothing. I ease my Beretta out of its holster. “JEAN-PIERRE!”

He startles and looks up at me. “Yes, Joe?”

He thinks I had a question. Let’s see what I can come up with. “Is that counting thing normal for you? Do you do it a lot?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think I have counted up my deaths, or Mortals’ deaths, like that before.”

“Probably a stress reaction, then. I’ve heard of guys doing that, counting things to keep some feeling of control over them.”

Jean-Pierre’s lips quirk in a poor imitation of a smile. “Well, that would explain why I panicked when I lost count of how many people had died around me in those 5 weeks.”

Jean-Pierre takes a deep breath, then releases it, and continues with his story. “It was more than 200 dead, but how many more? How could I show those Mortals respect? I did not know their names, I could not remember their faces, and now I had even lost their numbers. If I did not remember them, no one would!”

He struggles awkwardly to his knees and starts speaking faster, gesturing broadly with his hands. “Suddenly it seemed so obvious, so easy, so right. I would kill this man, this man giving orders. Quick as a thought, my sword was in my hands. I lunged. He turned at the sound, and my sword slashed across his face. He fell back. His men shot me, of course. The impacts pushed me back, rolled me over.”

Jean-Pierre’s eyes are fever-bright now. The words spill out of him. “But I had gotten very used to being shot, and I moved through the pain. I was shot, I was choking on my own blood, and I was dying, but I kept attacking my enemy. I pierced his lungs, hacked at his torso, and gutted him.”

Jean-Pierre’s been creeping forwards throughout this grisly little tale. Now he’s on all fours, right up against the edge of that circle he drew in the ground. I flick the Beretta’s safety off with my thumb. I really hope Jean-Pierre doesn’t cross that line.

“I didn’t try to take his head. I knew he was Mortal. As I slid into darkness, I thought I heard Baron Samedi. The loa of the Dead was laughing at me.” Jean-Pierre’s head sags down towards the ground.

I put the safety back on. “Why him, Jean-Pierre? Why did you decide to kill that man, at that time?”

He backs up into the center of the circle and sits down. “That’s the problem, Joe. I didn’t decide to kill him. I didn’t make that choice. I just … did it. And that makes me very afraid. Next time I pick up a sword, I might do the same thing again. I know how, and my hands remember the feeling of it.”

I guess I can understand that. If you chose to do something, you can decide to never do it again. But I saw some guys in ‘Nam who had just lost it, snapped. It would be hard to trust yourself, after that.

Jean-Pierre is holding his left hand in his right, rubbing his right thumb across his left palm in a circular motion. “So, I woke up in a Church full of corpses again. 5 times, on Holy Ground. First I heard the buzzing of flies and a strange meaty, thunk sound. Next I felt my own deep breath, and the pounding of my heart. Then I smelled … I worked in a Chicago slaughterhouse one summer, and it smelled like that. Blood rots fast in the heat. And there was blood everywhere. I could feel it tacky on my hands, soaked though my clothes. The flies were all over me. I opened my eyes, and I saw the man I had killed.”

Jean-Pierre stares fixedly at the ground in front of him. “I had butchered him. The wounds were familiar. The ones I had seen before were made with a machete on the corpses whose faces I could not remember. These were made with a scimitar, with my own hands, on the man I had murdered. But the wounds looked very much the same.”

“I looked for my sword. I found it, and I found the source of the strange noise. There was a living man in the Church, one of the militia. He had my sword. He was very organized, but there was madness dancing in his eyes. He would pick a corpse and drag it to the center of the room. Then he would h...”

Jean-Pierre stops, swallowing convulsively. He raises his arm to his mouth. I can see the muscles tensing in his jaw as he bites down hard. The pain seems to center him. Jean-Pierre lowers his arm. We both watch his Quickening sparkle over the bloody bite mark. He begins again.

“He would hack the corpse apart. Legs he placed in one corner, arms in another, torsos in the third. The last corner was for heads. When I stood up, he smiled at me in childish delight. I think he was pleased, to see one of his corpses moving about. I ran away, leaving my sword in his hands.”

“You know, Joe, sometimes God moves in mysterious ways. And sometimes not. I had murdered a man on Holy Ground, and woke to a warning so clear that no Immortal could mistake it. That was my Death there in the Church. It was a warning, but not a punishment. Not yet.”

“I did escape from Rwanda. I tried to shed my skin. I had left my sword; I burned my passport and clothes. Nothing from Rwanda remained. Nothing except me. I could not shed what I had done. And so I could not become someone new. I had no money, no papers, and no passport. Travel was hard. I walked at night, crossed borders in secret. I was frightened of everyone. It took me 5 months, but I finally made it to Paris. I had to see Darius.”

“I stood outside St. Julian’s in the rain. 5 times I had been killed on Holy Ground. 5 times I had revived in a Church full of corpses. And one of those corpses was a Mortal that I murdered on Holy Ground. A part of me was afraid to go into a Church again. But I knew that it would be all right, once I saw Darius. Darius’s Presence had always been strong, as long as I had known him. I could usually sense him from the gates, but on that day I walked in the doors without a touch of him.”

“There was an old woman kneeling in prayer. I waited until she was done. ‘Excuse me, Madame, do you know where I might find Father Darius?’ I asked. ‘Oh!’ She squeaked like a mouse. ‘Have you not heard? It was a terrible thing. He was murdered, right here in his own Church! Why they say that the maniacs …’ She came close to whisper this to me, ‘they say that they chopped his head right off!’”

“I was in a Church with just one murdered corpse, punishment for the one I had left behind. I ran from St. Julian’s, just like I did from the Church in Rwanda. There are patterns in life, and this is mine.”

Jean-Pierre closes his eyes for a moment, and then slams his hand into the ground. His face shows raw anguish. “I’m 175 years old, Joe! I have so much knowledge, so much experience. Is this the best I can do? Feel afraid, feel guilty, and murder a man? I’m just like James Horton!”

“Jean-Pierre, you are nothing like James.”

“Tell that to the dead man’s grieving mother, Joe.” Jean-Pierre slumps back to the ground, lying on his back. All I can see now are his sandy khaki knees. I holster my weapon and tilt my head back to watch the same slate-gray sky that Jean-Pierre must be staring at.

After a minute I hear Jean-Pierre’s voice, husky from a tight throat. “Joe? You thought James Horton could atone, after he killed Darius. Can I atone? Can I be forgiven?”

We’re a long way from Sunday school here. I’ve had my doubts over the years, seen plenty of things that made me think God, if He was even up there, must be a complete bastard. I don’t know what I believe these days. There are no easy answers. But I can feel my grandmother’s crucifix under my shirt, over my heart. If God exists, there has got to be forgiveness for a good man like Jean-Pierre. “Jean-Pierre, I’m sure of it. Come on over here.”

Jean-Pierre stumbles to his feet. I pat the log next to me and he drags himself over to sit down. His face is marked with fresh tear streaks, and it makes him look heart-breakingly young. “I can’t tell you how to find forgiveness. You need to look inside yourself for that. But I have a question for you. When you got out of Rwanda, besides Darius and Grace, was there anyone else you could go to?”

Jean-Pierre shakes his head no. He’s shivering hard, and with him pressed hip to hip against me I can feel it. I throw an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Look, you want some advice? Here it is. You said that people are connected to each other, but you are the least connected man I know. And it’s killing you.”

Jean-Pierre sniffles, and turns his head to look at me with wide, wet eyes. “What should I do?”

“Hell if I know, it’s your life! Join a band. Join a kibbutz. Get a job. Get a freaking pen pal. Fall in love. Just … connect with people somehow.” I rub Jean-Pierre’s back in small circles like my mom used to do for me when I was sick. He leans into me a bit, and I brace with my other hand to keep us upright. Eventually the shivering stops, and his breathing slows down to normal. “You okay?”

Jean-Pierre lets out his breath in a long sigh. “I think so. Thank you, Joe.”

I pat his shoulder, and he sits up. “Right, why don’t you grab that picnic lunch out of the car, then. Katie and Alexa expect me to feed you up while we’re out here.”

We eat our lunch in a deep silence, listening to the waves. Jean-Pierre falls asleep on the drive back. When we arrive back at the bar, he gets out without a word, waves goodbye, and walks away down the road through the drizzling rain. I catch sight of Gerard shadowing him just before he turns onto 4th Street.


	8. Aftermath

**Chapter 8**

I walk back into the bar and call MacLeod from my office phone. "Mac? We're back." I settle down into the office chair with relief. "No...yeah...no...hell, I don't know." I rest my cane against the desk. "Listen, he's walking back. Give me a call when he gets in safe?" I boot up the computer. “Thanks. You too.” Hanging up the phone, I hold on to the conviction that talking about it must have helped Jean-Pierre. Nothing’s worse than bottling it up inside.  
  
I pull up the form for “Suggested Additions to a Third-Party Immortal’s Chronicles” on the computer and sit there staring at it until the screensaver pops up. I’m not sure how much of what Jean-Pierre told me belongs in his Chronicle. If it were Mac, I’d leave out all but the bare dates and events. But Jean-Pierre asked me to tell his story to the Watchers, and there’s much more to it than “April 1994 - Rwanda - Subject witnesses several massacres of civilians and kills one of the Mortals responsible.”

When there’s a knock on the office door, I’m glad for the interruption. “Come in.”

Alexa comes in and closes the door behind her. She’s looking flushed but determined. “Joe, I need to talk to you.”

“What is it Alexa? Are you still okay working this long shift on Wednesdays?”

“Oh, that’s fine, I’ll let you know when I need to cut down.”

When, not if. If Duncan MacLeod makes me feel my mortality, Alexa reminds me that it’s possible to live gracefully with it. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer earlier this year. Alexa works here to make some money and stay involved with things, while she gets treated at the hospital and ties up her loose ends.

Alexa overcomes her hesitation. “I wanted to talk to you about Jean-Pierre.” If she asks me if I’m sleeping with him, I am kicking her out of my office.

“Joe - is he sick?” That’s not what I expected.

“Jean-Pierre sick? No, why?”

She sighs. “Joe, I know several men at the hospital that are thin like that. Two are going through chemo. The rest have AIDS. I know this is none of my business, but … he seemed really freaked out this morning. I thought maybe he got some bad news.”

Well, that explains her concern. “Alexa, Jean-Pierre is perfectly healthy. He lost someone close to him, and he’s been going through some rough times. But he’s not sick.”

Alexa leans back against the door. “All right, Joe, that’s good to hear. Just make sure he eats. He’s not going to stay healthy if he doesn’t eat right.”

For a Mortal that would be a real concern, but Jean-Pierre could starve to death and revive with no ill effects, from what I’ve read. “I’ll try. Anything else, Alexa?”

Alexa blushes a bit. “No. Sorry, Joe, I was just worried. About him and about you. You ignored everybody when you got back. Normally you at least say hi on the way to your office. I thought you might be upset.”

Thinking back, I realize she’s right. “Sorry about that, I was just a little preoccupied. So … Hi Alexa.”

She smiles at me, eyes twinkling. “Hi Joe. Bye Joe.” Alexa stands up, opens the door, and slips out, closing it firmly behind her.

Alexa comes across as shy, but she’s bold as brass when it comes to taking care of someone. I confess; I like the way she looks after me. I’m glad I hired her. I’d rather have a waitress with a kind smile who occasionally needs to ask a customer to repeat their order than one who can clear a table in 30 seconds flat but leaves a trail of frayed tempers behind her.

I focus back on the computer. Calling up the scent of the sea with a hint of creosote, I replay in my mind what Jean-Pierre told me today. He named me a bard. That’s a sacred trust. I’ll try to write his story so that any Watcher who reads it will feel the anguish of what Jean-Pierre went through in Rwanda. They can choose to include it in his Chronicles or not. At least there will be some record beyond our two memories.

* * *

Six hours later I’m up in my apartment. I’m exhausted, but I don’t dare close my eyes. I can feel that damn nightmare nibbling at the edges of my mind, just waiting for me to fall asleep. Yeah, my nightmares do encores.

I head down to put in an hour behind the bar. I’m distracted and cranky. The bar’s too loud, too bright, and even the music is getting on my nerves. Alexa finally tells me to go catch a movie, before my staff quits just to get me out of their hair.

I walk out the front door of the bar into a wet night. I huddle against the wall, watching the rain misting through the streetlights, listening to the shushing of cars driving through puddles in the street. This is ridiculous.

I’m worried about Jean-Pierre. He walked off without a word. I’ve called Mac three times this afternoon, and Jean-Pierre still isn’t back. For all I know he just kept walking, and is 30 miles out of Seacouver by now, with no clothes, no money, and no sword.

I give in, and call Maria’s cell phone. She picks up on the 3rd ring. I manage a good 2 minutes of small talk before casually inquiring how Gerard’s doing with his new assignment. I can feel the look she’s giving me right through the phone.

“He was fine as of his check-in an hour ago.”

Come on Maria; don’t make me beg for it. She sighs. “Of course, I don’t think six hours of surveillance on an Immortal sitting in church praying was quite what he had in mind when he signed up with the Watchers.”

Yes! “Thanks, Maria. I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it, Joe. You’ve got a good heart. Not enough sense to come in out of the rain, but a good heart.” She hangs up. Standing outside my bar in the rain, I have to admit that Maria has a point.

Well, this is good news. At the very least, Jean-Pierre is willing to take refuge on Holy Ground now. At best, maybe he can find some peace tonight. He could use it.

A customer bangs out the door of the bar. The loud swirl of music and conversation makes me flinch. I don’t want to go back in there. The image of Jean-Pierre sitting a solitary vigil in a church is curiously appealing. Hey, if he can do it, so can I.

I’ve never been to Mass in Seacouver, but as MacLeod’s Watcher it’s my job to know every scrap of Holy Ground within an hour’s drive. I walk to my car. Fifteen minutes later I’m pulling into the parking lot for St. James. There are other Roman Catholic churches closer to home, but this one reminds me of St. Bride’s, the parish I grew up in.

I push my way through the wooden doors and pause by the font out of pure habit. God and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Lauren died. I’m not really sure why I’m here, but the silence is soothing.

The church is deserted, with only a faint whiff of incense to mark the evening prayer service that ended an hour ago. The nave has the echoing emptiness of a school during the summer, or a stadium in the off-season. I’m drawn to a small shrine near the confessionals – a stand of votive candles by a statue of Mary.

When I shot James, I promised that I would light a candle for him. I never have. Now might be a good time. I pull a few dollars out of my wallet and push them into the offering box, then light a taper. I touch the taper to the wick of a candle in the center of the top row. I whisper my prayer, as I light it.

“James Horton – my friend, my enemy, my brother. Father of Lynn, killer of Darius, Robert, and others. You were a good man, once. May God have mercy on your soul.” I blow out the taper.

It’s not enough. James deserved a candle, but there are other ghosts with me tonight. I start another taper burning, and use it to light candles across the bottom row as I say their names.

“Robert Tucker, Josh King, Lauren Gale, Ian Bancroft, Don Salzer, Christine Salzer, Charlie DeSalvo, Andrew Cord.” Nine candles flicker as I extinguish the taper. Nine men and women close to me are dead, and all of them are on my shoulders in some way.

Suddenly it all crashes in on me, makes me dizzy. I back up to the nearest pew and sit down before I fall down. My brain takes off on a little tangent. NPR had a special last month about mass extinctions. It seems that a few times in Earth’s history large numbers of species have suddenly become extinct. Scientists are left puzzling over the fossil record, trying to figure out why. Some call these time periods “die-offs.”

I’m looking at my own personal die-off. People die, and Watching can be dangerous. But I’ve been a Watcher for 25 years, and this has all happened in the last two. Robert was the first, and I know the exact day he died. September 27, 1993. The day I first spoke to Duncan MacLeod.

Is it that simple? No. I’m not being punished for breaking my Oath. God wouldn’t do that, any more than He would take Darius because Jean-Pierre killed a mass-murderer. So what is the reason, the connection? Jean-Pierre would say it’s a pattern. I force myself to look at the candles.

MacLeod killed two of them. Not that I blame him. He made the right call, did what he had to do. Five of these people were killed by other Immortals. Watchers who were interfering in the Game killed two more. I tried to shoot James and Christine myself, to protect Immortals from them. James was just too damn ornery to die, and Christine … MacLeod saved me from having her death on my conscience. What is the pattern here?

All of them were walking the razor edge where Mortal and Immortal worlds meet. Sailors lose friends to the sea. Soldiers lose people to war. This is where I live. It doesn’t mean anything.

I shift in my seat so I can see the crucifix in the front of the church. Okay, God. Here I am, in Your house. My grandmother said that you never gave anyone a burden wider than his shoulders could carry. She said You answered every prayer, somehow. Well, I’m here to tell you that this load’s getting too damn heavy for me. I could use a little help. I find myself glaring at Christ like He’s some new waitress who’s not doing her share. Yeah, like that’s gonna work. I look back at the candles.

If their deaths don’t have any pattern, what about their lives? What would they want from me? Robert and Josh were both young Watchers who were trying to follow their orders, their Oaths, and their hearts all at the same time. They both put a lot of faith in me. Robert and Josh trusted me to do the right thing.

Lauren. Our time together was so short. The sweetness of it is overwhelmed by the bitter grief of her murder, and the loneliness I’ve felt since. There was no reason why an art historian should just happen to get on the wrong side of an Immortal. It’s too cruel to be a coincidence. If that was part of God’s Plan, He’s an asshole. Lauren … she would just want me to be happy.

Ian, my mentor. He was so angry the last time we spoke. First James betrayed him by killing Darius, and then I betrayed him by becoming friends with MacLeod. Ian wanted me to follow my Oath.

My friend Don. He was a funny guy. Don couldn’t tell you what he ate for lunch, but he knew every detail of political intrigues in the court of Venice 500 years ago. Don had a gift for finding the real human drama in even the driest Chronicle. He died protecting Methos’s secret. Don would want me to make sure the knowledge of the Watchers isn’t used to harm Immortals.

When Christine lost Don, she lost everything. She really did love him. Christine felt cheated. It wasn’t just that Kalas murdered Don. It was also the way that the Watchers had consumed so much of his energy and attention over the years. Christine wanted revenge. I hope she’s satisfied now that Kalas is dead. Maybe she would want me to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.

Charlie DeSalvo was ex-Special Forces, trying to use wartime skills in peacetime by running a dojo. He never was very good at peace. He threw himself into battle at MacLeod’s side, went to war for his lover, and died trying to revenge her. I wish Mac and I had kept that from happening. But to be honest, Charlie was never going to die in bed. Charlie would want me to watch MacLeod’s back.

Andrew Cord saved my life in ‘Nam. He wasn’t necessarily a good man. I knew that, even then. But he was good to me. Sergeant Cord and I were the last two men left alive, from our platoon. What would the Immortal want from me? I think he’d just want me to survive.

Who’s left? Just James. I know exactly what James wanted. He wanted every Immortal dead. And I would have killed him to keep it from happening.

So, is there a pattern here? Do the right thing. Be happy. Follow my Oath. Protect Immortals from the Watchers. Protect Watchers from the Immortals. Watch MacLeod’s back. Keep myself alive. I feel my ghosts’ desires pulling me in different directions, a cacophony of sound. Then with an internal shift, they resolve into a single orchestral chord. Oh yeah. Stop the Hunters.

I’ve been slacking. When the Tribunal demoted me back down to Area Supervisor and gave the US Northwest to that bureaucrat Peterson; I backed down. I should have known better. These are my people. They can take the title, but they can’t take away the responsibility. The Watchers are my home, and James tried to bring it down around our ears. He’s gone, but the rot might still be eating away at us.

So – Adam and I will look into it. Hopefully it’s not too serious. Worst-case scenario: it goes right to the top, and the Tribunal is involved. If that’s true, then I guess I’ll be doing some recruiting of my own.

I stand and walk back to the shrine. The candles are burning steadily, one in the top row and eight across the bottom. I sweep my hand over the bottom row of candles, feeling the heat of them. “I hear you. James started this, but I’ll finish it. Rest easy.”

* * *

There’s a message on my answering machine when I get back from practicing at the firing range the next morning. It’s MacLeod. “Joe, I just wanted to let you know that Jean-Pierre showed up on the dojo steps this morning. He wants to try a spar.”

I immediately give Mac a ring. He picks up with a mellow, “MacLeod.”

“Morning, Mac, thanks for calling me. How did the spar go?”

Mac pauses for a moment. “Not too bad. Jean-Pierre definitely needs to work on his strength and endurance. But he’s fast, and has an unconventional mix of styles that would confuse most opponents. He’s much better than I expected, actually.”

“Did you use live blades?”

“Of course. Jean-Pierre finally picked one out from my collection. Not quite what he’s used to, but I think this length will work well for him.”

In the background I hear Jean-Pierre’s voice. “Is that Joe? Hello Joe! Bonjour Joe! Hola Joe!” Jean-Pierre runs through a dozen greetings in a variety of languages and silly voices. Judging by the rustling noises and varying volume I’d guess he’s trying to grab the phone from MacLeod.

I wish I could see what’s going on, because Mac starts whooping with laughter. I haven’t heard quite that note of outraged enjoyment in his voice since Fitzcairn died last year. Jean-Pierre addresses me with prim and proper dignity in a heavy Irish brogue. “Joseph. What an honor it is to speak to you this fine morning.”

“Morning, Jean-Pierre. I take it you won the wrestling match?”

“Not at all. I simply traded my towel for the phone.” MacLeod’s sputtering now. “Oops, I think Duncan wants to speak to you!”

It’s been a while since I was in a boy’s locker room, but I still recognize the distinctive crack of a towel against human flesh. “Mac? You there?”

“Joe, swear to me none of that is going in my Chronicle.” He’s joking around, but I answer him seriously.

“Not a word of it, Mac. Sounds like he’s in a good mood, anyway.”

Mac’s rumbling chuckle puts a smile on my face. “That he is. Joe, would you be free for dinner tonight? I’m cooking for Grace and Jean-Pierre. One more helping of pasta would be no trouble.”

I bask in the warm feeling for a moment. Things are really back to normal between us, if Mac is inviting me over for dinner again. I do a quick mental check of the shift schedule. “Make it an early dinner? I’ll need to be back at the bar by 8pm.”

“Sure, Joe. See you at 5:30?”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Mac.” I hang up the phone and start humming to myself. Things are looking up. Jean-Pierre’s okay, I’m okay, Mac’s okay, and the two of them are starting to get along better. I’m glad. MacLeod needs more friends who can make him laugh like that.

* * *

It’s a great dinner: terrific food, fun people, intriguing conversation. Grace fills us in on her work in Caracas, studying the physical and psychological causes of addiction. Jean-Pierre insists there’s a spiritual side to it, and tells us about the destruction he’s seen alcohol cause in Ireland and on tribal reservations. MacLeod makes a few quiet comments about addiction among Immortals. Watching the three of them enjoy each other’s company, I wish that more Immortals met over a glass of wine instead of a sword. The conversation shifts, and I barely suppress a groan. They’re arguing again.

Mac is trying to convince Jean-Pierre to make some serious cash, and save it up in case he needs it. He’s got ideas where someone who is eloquent in 8 languages could make their first million within two years. I listen to his suggestions. Watcher funds come from three sources: unintended bequests from heirless Immortals lost to the Game, profits from Watcher-owned front businesses like my bar, and investment strategies culled from careful surveillance of the world’s most successful long-term investors. Mac’s no slouch even by Immortal standards, so when he talks about money, I take notes.

Unfortunately, Jean-Pierre doesn’t seem as appreciative. He’s using all of that eloquence to entertain Grace and I while declining and subtly mocking Mac’s ideas. I remember something Jean-Pierre said in the car the yesterday. ‘Duncan reminds me of Carlo, sometimes. Oh, they are very different men. I know that. But they were both with Grace, and both very dominant. Carlo liked to control people for his own benefit. Duncan just wants to help. But it still feels the same.’

Things are definitely getting tense between the two of them. Jean-Pierre has a sharp-edged tongue when he’s backed into a corner, and Mac is getting pissed off. So I decide to break in with a story. “Hey guys, you remind me of the ant and the grasshopper. You know the fable?” Grace looks relieved at my interruption.

You can tell all three Immortals were raised in times where storytelling was the major form of entertainment, instead of the boob tube. They immediately settle back in their chairs to listen, even though I’m sure they have heard it before. I tell them the story like I heard it from my grandfather, starting with a description of the ant’s backbreaking work to prepare for winter while the grasshopper sings and plays, and ending with the grasshopper dying of cold and hunger in the middle of a blizzard.

After a beat’s silence, Jean-Pierre glances at me and tilts his head, asking for permission. I’m not sure what he has in mind, but I nod.

He sits up in his seat, drawing all of our eyes, and continues the fable. “And so the grasshopper lay dead through all the cold and hungry months. The snow covered his still form. Then spring came in all of her glory. Her gentle rays melted the snow. Her warm breezes brought life to the trees, to the grass, and to the grasshopper. He revived with a shout of joy and began to sing and dance again.”

Jean-Pierre and MacLeod are sharing a look. I realize that both of them have done this at some point – died during a hard winter from hunger or cold, and revived in the spring. That’s not in any of Mac’s Chronicles. Maybe if I pour enough Scotch into him he’ll tell me about it, sometime. I guess this fable has a slightly different moral, if you’re an Immortal.

MacLeod chuckles and looks away. “All right, Jean-Pierre, have it your way. I was just trying to help. It’s not cheap creating new identities these days!”

Jean-Pierre smiles warmly. “I know, and I thank you for caring. But it’s not what I need, not right now. Perhaps in a few years.”

He stands up and moves to the center of the room. “Actually, I’ve decided what I would like to do with myself next. Grace, you are going back to the hospital in Caracas tomorrow?”

She nods, looking a bit confused.

“Then I’ll head down the coast and meet you there. If you could help me set up a good identity … I would like to train as a nurse.” Jean-Pierre looks to me, as if waiting for a verdict.

With a glad cry Grace is out of her seat and hugging him. Grace has been a doctor for at least four hundred years. Having her favorite student go into medicine must be a dream come true.

I glance over at MacLeod. He’s looking at Jean-Pierre like a proud papa, and I recall that Mac’s put in plenty of time as a field medic, paramedic, and ambulance driver. Then his forehead creases, and he leans forward to speak. “Jean-Pierre, by the time you’re certified, you won’t have much time to practice before you need to move on.”

It’s good to know that, whether Mac’s talked to Richie about it yet or not, he realizes what life is like for an Immortal who died young.

Jean-Pierre gives a little half-smile and shrugs. “I know. But I’ll always have the knowledge and experience. If I go where I’m needed most, no one’s too picky about checking the references of the person helping out.”

Where a nurse is needed most … images dance through my mind. War zones. Disaster areas. Orphanages. Refugee camps. Disease hot zones. I guess Jean-Pierre has changed his mind about walking away from human suffering. That’s one hell of a way to atone.

When Duncan and Grace adjourn to the couch for a technical discussion of the best possible identity for Jean-Pierre and how to set it up, Jean-Pierre sits down next to me. “So, Joe. What do you think?” He looks concerned. When did my approval start mattering so much?

“About your plans to become a nurse?” He nods. “I think it’s a hard road you’re setting out on. But you’ll help a lot of people. I think Darius would be proud. And I know Grace is.”

Jean-Pierre smiles. Then he reaches out, picks up some salad greens off my plate with his right hand, and starts munching on them thoughtfully. I’m still trying to think of a culture in the world where that would be polite table manners when he speaks up. “Grace will be flying back to Caracas tomorrow afternoon. I will probably start walking south then.”

He’s leaving tomorrow. It’s strange. I’ve only known Jean-Pierre a few days, but I’m going to miss him. Who can say if he’ll be back to the Northwest within my lifetime? Jean-Pierre is studying the remnants of my salad as if there might be buried treasure in there. He looks up at me.

“Joe, I’d… like to write to you. Postcards, and letters. A very wise man once told me that I need a pen pal. Either that, or to fall in love. And somehow I think I’ve a better chance of getting you to respond to my letters.” Jean-Pierre’s tone is playful, but the wistful smile and shadowed eyes tell a different story.

I carefully answer the words, not the eyes. “Jean-Pierre, I’ll look forward to hearing from you. And as soon as you have a steady address, I’ll write back. I’ve always been a good letter-writer.”

I check my watch. “I’d better get going. I need to get back to the bar before I turn into a pumpkin.” I could stay another half-hour and still make it by 8, but I can’t take another half-hour of Jean-Pierre looking at me like that. Retreat is definitely the better part of valor.

I manage polite goodbyes and promise to see Grace and Jean-Pierre off from the airport tomorrow. MacLeod will drive. Parking at the airport is always tight. Mac probably bought the T-bird because it has great trunk space for disposing of bodies after Challenges, but it works equally well for luggage.  


* * *

  
  
**Chapter 9**

Friday is glorious, with bright blue skies and crisp air. I wait outside the bar. When MacLeod pulls up, Grace immediately gets out and hops into the back seat. That leaves me to ride shotgun while Jean-Pierre sits next to her. I slide into the front seat and say hello to everyone. I let the others carry the conversation for a while. They talk about places they’ve visited on the West Coast, that Jean-Pierre might want to see on the way down to Caracas.  
  
This may be the last time I’ll ever see him, and there’s something I have to know. “Jean-Pierre, where did you get the idea that you shouldn’t interfere in Mortal affairs? It sounds a lot like the Watcher Oath.” I turn so I can watch Jean-Pierre while he answers.

Jean-Pierre taps his lips and then throws his hand into an open-palm shrug. “Some of it was the bad example of Carlo, some the teachings of Grace and Darius, and some came from my own beliefs. Free will is the most precious gift given to us by God, Joe. Mortals or Immortals, we create ourselves every day in the choices we make.”

Jean-Pierre leans forward towards me. “Carlo set himself up as a god to the Pecino people. He defeated their enemies for them, forced them to work on his plantation, and made himself judge of their conflicts. And within a decade, I watched them dwindle from a proud and vigorous people to shadows. They lost even their language. Carlo liked them to speak Portuguese, said it was more civilized.”

MacLeod curses under his breath, and I recall that the English almost wiped out the Scots Gaelic language in his lifetime.

Grace inhales audibly, and Jean-Pierre sits back to look at her. “Jean-Pierre, it took me almost a hundred years to see the damage Carlo was doing to the Pecinos. I was so busy with my research, and I was a doctor. They were living longer, healthier lives. The children were surviving. The men were no longer dying in pointless raids against the other tribes. I knew you were unhappy on the plantation, so I helped you get to Europe. But I didn’t really listen to what you were telling me about Carlo and the Pecinos. I should have.” Mac’s hands are clenched tightly on the steering wheel.

Jean-Pierre picks up Grace’s hand and kisses it. “Grace, Carlo could only teach me how to kill. You taught me how to live as an Immortal. You have always helped Mortals in any way that you could, and your compassion is an inspiration to me. Carlo treated them with care when you were near. It’s not your fault that you didn’t see what he was hiding from you.”

Jean-Pierre unbuckles his seatbelt and slides closer to Grace. He puts his arm around her and then faces front towards me. “So – this is something I swore to myself I would not do, Joe. This world belongs to Mortals. Immortals are just allowed to play in it for a time. Mortals shape it, change it, and so they should. We should not be the gods, the sages, the great generals or teachers.”

MacLeod interrupts. “Jean-Pierre, I understand why you say Immortals shouldn’t act as gods, but why not teachers? Darius was a great man, and he brought a lot of good into this world through his students, both Mortal and Immortal.”

The delighted spark in Jean-Pierre’s eyes reminds me of the way Mac looks during a really good spar. “Darius tried to warp the Mortal world to suit him through war, once. He realized that it was wrong, but he never quite lost his taste for it. Darius believed that if Mortals did what he wished, the world would be a better place. Perhaps he was right. But it was never our decision to make.”

“I can be very persuasive, Duncan. I've learned from Jesuits and griots, bards and rabbis, truth-singers and law-speakers. If I use these skills to help a family mourn their child, or convince an audience to lay down their cares for a night, there's no harm in it. But to persuade a man to change the path of his life - that is wrong. I've stolen the choice from him, just as if I'd used force of arms. I have stolen his life away, almost as if I murdered him.”

Mac humphs. “You and Darius must have had some grand philosophical debates. Darius wanted me to stop fighting for what was right, and you think that I shouldn’t even persuade Mortals to do the right thing. But you won’t convince me of it!” MacLeod’s declaration, pitched to an audience in the back of the car, makes my ears ring.

Jean-Pierre grins. “Duncan, I wouldn’t even attempt it. I have enough trouble deciding what’s the right thing for myself, without making other people’s moral choices for them. You should follow your own heart. Besides, I doubt I’d get very far if I did try to convince you. Sometimes, when Darius was very exasperated, he would mutter under his breath, ‘Stubborn as a Highlander.’” Grace bursts out into a suspicious coughing fit. MacLeod smiles fondly and shakes his head.

I find myself wishing I could have met Darius, and gotten to know the man who touched all of their lives. But James made sure that would never happen. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

There is a moment of silence. MacLeod breaks it with a quiet, “Joe, it wasn’t your fault.” Maybe not, but if it ever happens again, it will be.

Jean-Pierre leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Your presence in our lives is Darius’s final gift to us, Joe.” He squeezes my shoulder and then leans back and stretches extravagantly. “Grace – how is the food in Caracas?” We chat about Central and South American food until Mac pulls into short-term parking at Sea-Tac airport.

There’s no way Jean-Pierre is carrying a sword under that jacket, so if he’s got one, it must be in his bags. I hurry to the back of the car, where MacLeod is unloading a set of matched leather luggage. I peer into the trunk – the GI-style rucksack must be Jean-Pierre’s.

I turn to Grace. “Before I forget, Grace, I got you a little something for trip back.” I pull a tiny and ornate box of Dilettante chocolate truffles out of my coat pocket and hand them to her. “I guessed you were a dark chocolate fan – was I right?”

Grace takes the box and teases, “Joe, are you sure you didn’t cheat and look it up?”

Grace and Jean-Pierre both seem to take being Watched much more calmly than Mac does. I don’t think I’d be quite so cheerful about it, myself.

“Nah, those files never include any of the really important stuff like people’s chocolate preference.”

Grace smiles. “Well, your guess was correct. I adore dark chocolate.” She neatly opens the plastic wrapper around the box, and takes a voluptuous sniff. “These are lovely, thank you, Joe.” She places the chocolates carefully in her purse.

I pull a large Ziploc bag of cookies out of the same pocket. My bulging coat must have made me look like a deformed chipmunk. “Now, Jean-Pierre, Alexa made these for you.” I reach into the trunk and zip open one of the rucksack’s side pockets to tuck the cookies in, feeling for a sword in the pack. I raise my voice so he can hear me. “They’re oatmeal chocolate chunk, and she says to eat them before they get stale.”

Nothing on that side, so I open the other side pocket and transfer bars and bags into it from my other coat pocket. “The Power Bars and dried fruit are from me.” Ah, there it is. Long, hard, right length for a sword. Well, that’s a relief. I make sure everything is zipped up tight, and then pull the rucksack out of the trunk. Jean-Pierre takes it from my hands and swings it onto his back. “Eat something whenever you feel hungry. Got it?” I pin him with my eyes, to show I mean it.

Jean-Pierre intones, “Yes, Mother.”

“… hen?” MacLeod suggests helpfully, from the other side of the car. I flip him off, and Mac chuckles as he closes the trunk and locks up.

We head towards the terminal. I’m walking next to Jean-Pierre, behind Grace and Mac, when a child screams on the other side of the lot. Jean-Pierre’s steps falter for a moment. When I look over at him, his face is serene, but I can see the pulse pounding in his throat.

“Jean-Pierre,” I ask quietly, “are you all right?”

He responds softly, “Is it obvious that I’m not?”

“Only to me.”

He smiles a little. “Good. I wouldn’t want Grace to worry. We heal wounds of the body immediately, Joe. Wounds of the spirit take a bit longer. It’s much better than it was. I just need some time.”

We reach the terminal and Grace checks-in. We say our goodbyes on the concourse, typical for Immortals who don’t want their swords setting off a metal detector. Grace hugs all three of us. When she hugs me, she whispers, “Joseph, thank you for being such a good friend to them both. You will always be welcome in my home.”

As she hurries towards her gate, I catch sight of Maria and Gerard in the crowd. I bet that as soon as Maria clears Customs in Caracas, I’ll be getting a phone call chewing my ass over being seen in public with yet another Immortal.

Jean-Pierre shakes Duncan’s hand with a smile. It’s nice to see them parting on good terms. He approaches and hugs me nervously, like he’s not sure it’s allowed. I balance myself, put my arms around him and pull him towards me, hand on the nape of his neck. Jean-Pierre relaxes against me with a sigh. We stand there for a minute.

Jean-Pierre finally pulls away a bit to look up at my face. He speaks with quick intensity. “Joe, I have to warn you. I think James Horton might return again.”

I snort. “Jean-Pierre, he’s really dead this time. Believe me, I checked.” I didn’t call for the Watchers to pick up his body until it was cold, just in case.

He shakes his head, frustrated. “Joe, that doesn’t matter. I know James Horton, through your story. He wasn’t done with Duncan MacLeod. He wasn’t done with you. It’s as if you are still battling him, even now. James had a terrifying strong will. If there is any way back, he will take it.”

I realize that this isn’t Jean-Pierre acting crazy. This is just Jean-Pierre being himself. He was born into a world where people could rise from the dead, and he still lives in that world. In his own bizarre way, he’s trying to look after me. “Don’t worry about it, Jean-Pierre. MacLeod and I will watch each other’s backs.”

Jean-Pierre’s eyes search mine. “All right. Thank you, Joe, for everything.” With one hand resting on my shoulder, Jean-Pierre stands on tiptoe to kiss my forehead.

He steps back, out of my arms. Jean-Pierre raises his voice enough for Mac and any nearby Watchers to hear. “And if you ever change your mind about letting me crawl under the covers with you, send word. I’ll be up here in a flash!”

With a saucy little smile, Jean-Pierre shrugs into his rucksack and saunters out the front doors of the concourse. Things seem a little quiet with him gone, but I know that won’t last for long. MacLeod steps up next to me.

“Think we’ll ever see him again, Mac?”

“Of course. Any Immortal that irritating is bound to show up on my door-step regularly.” MacLeod is grinning. Yeah, he had fun with Jean-Pierre around, too. “Come on, Joe.”

He immediately starts clearing a path through the crowd for me. Duncan MacLeod, Grace Chandel, and Jean-Pierre Bastien are good people. Extraordinary people. And James wanted them dead. I know James Horton isn’t coming back, but his Hunters might. And I’ll be here to stop them.  


THE END

In the sequel, [The Secret War](http://keerawa.livejournal.com/17725.html), Joe and Methos take on the Hunters.


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